UNiVtrtSn'f  OF  SLliMO.S 

Af  ‘ 

STACKS 


THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 

76T 

HHu 

. sssssesi^ 


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THE 


PHILIP  GILBERT  HAMERTON. 


IllustratEi  bg  tfje  ^ut^or. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 
1876.^ 


JOHN 


ipress  of 

WILSON  AND  SON, 

Cambridge. 


n<s  T 

hit  ^ 


THE  UNKNOWN  RIVER. 

ETCHER'S  VOYAGE  OF  DISCOVERY. 
EHEitfj  ^Ijirtjj^scben  Ellustrations, 

ETCHED  FROM  NATURE  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


442^’79 


/ 


THE  REV.  HORATIO  N.  POWERS,  D.D., 


07ie  of  the  most  valued  of  many  kind  friends 
in  A?nerica, 

I DEDICATE  THIS  VOLUME. 


PREFACE 


TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


TN  the  revival  of  the  too  long  neglected  art  of 
^ etching,  we  who  in  England  and  France  have 
tried  to  recover  the  right  use  of  the  needle,  have 
had  to  contend  against  many  difficulties;  and  little 
of  what  we  have  hitherto  done  can  be  considered 
more  than  tentative  and  experimental.  Etching, 
however,  has  this  advantage  over  line-engraving, — 
that  the  comparatively  rapid  and  spontaneous 
nature  of  the  process,  and  its  purely  artistic  and 
intellectual  aims,  obtain  indulgence  for  many  im- 
perfections which  would  not  be  tolerated  in  a craft 
professing  great  mechanical  finish.  In  etching,  the 
spirit  of  the  work  is  of  more  consequence  than 
manual  accuracy,  and  I have  therefore  allowed 
several  plates  to  be  published  in  this  series,  in 
which  the  manual  work  is  rude,  because  they 
expressed  my  meaning,  though  in  a rough  wa}^ 
Nearly  all  the  plates  in  this  scries  — indeed,  the 
whole  of  the  landscape  subjects  — were  etched 


Vlll 


Preface  to  the  American  Edition* 


directly  from  nature,  often  under  circumstances 
very  different  from  the  convenient  surroundings  of 
an  engraver's  table  at  home,  with  rain  pouring 
over  the  plate,  or  daylight  rapidly  declining,  joined 
to  serious  apprehensions  about  passing  some  dan- 
gerous rapid  before  I could  get  to  a village  inn,  or 
find  shelter  beneath  the  thatch  of  some  humble 
hamlet,  nestled  in  a nook  of  the  wooded  and  rocky 
shore.  Hence  they  are  literally  no  more-  than  the 
notes  of  impressions  which  an  artist  takes  in  his 
memorandum  book.  As  for  the  two  or  three  sub- 
jects in  which  the  author  himself  appears,  it  may 
be  remarked  that,  as  he  could  not^^^i'^’  and  draw  at 
the  same  time,  there  was  a peculiar  difficulty  in 
these  attempts,  which  the  author,  from  want  of 
practice  in  figure  drawing,  could  scarcely  be  ex- 
pected to  overcome.  A friend  of  mine,  who  is  a 
hgure-painter  by  profession,  kindly  made  one  or 
two  slight  sketches  as  helps;  but,  as  the  artist 
in  question  belonged  to  the  severest  French  classi- 
cal school  (with  which,  as  an  artist,  I have  no 
affinity  whatever,  though  as  a critic  I admire  much 
of  what  it  has  accomplished),  his  sketches  were 
conceived  in  a temper  so  opposed  to  mine  that 
they  turned  out  to  be  of  no  use  for  this  particular 
purpose.  Dog  Tom  was  introduced  at  the  urgent 
request  of  an  unknown  correspondent  whose  love 
of  dogs  touched  the  author  in  a tender  place,  and 


Preface  to  the  American  Edition,  ix 

made  him,  somewhat  rashly,  turn  animal-designer 
for  the  occasion.  American  critics  are  therefore 
requested  to  remember  that  the  figures  and  dog 
are  thrown  in,  as  it  were,  simply  for  the  reader’s 
amusement,  and  not  with  any  ambitious  artistic 
pretensions. 

However,  such  as  they  are,  it  has  been  the  good 
fortune  of  these  little  plates  to  please  many  people 
in  Europe,  and  amongst  them  a few  more  than 
ordinarily  fastidious  and  capable  judges.  This 
may  be  attributed  to  the  fact  that  in  etching  them 
the  artist  worked  without  the  least  reference  to 
criticism  of  any  kind,  in  the  simple  enjoyment  of 
one  of  the  pleasantest  artistic  expeditions  imagina- 
ble. Indeed,  although  working  very  hard  the 
whole  time,  I was  under  the  delusion  — it  may  be 
strictly  said,  labored  under  the  delusion  — that  the 
vo3’age  was  a perfect  holiday,  a belief  that  was 
greatly  encouraged  by  an  absolute  indecision  as  to 
which  plates  should  be  published  and  which  de- 
stroyed. Another  piece  of  luck  was,  that  I had 
no  time,  nor  acid,  to  bite  the  plates  there  and  then, 
and  so  innocently  fancied  that  they  were  all  very 
pretty  (an  etching  done  according  to  the  old  nega- 
tive process  always  looks  pretty  when  it  is  first 
drawn,  because  the  lines  glitter  charmingly  on  the 
black  ground),  and  felt  agreeably  encouraged,  the 
evil  hour  of  disappointment  being  put  off  until  my 


X Preface  to  the  Ainerica7t  Edition, 

return  to  home  and  the  printing  press,  which  told 
the  painful  truth  with  a frankness  equal  to  that 
of  the  most  unpleasantly  honest  dilettaitte  in  Eng- 
land. 

It  may  interest  readers  who  share  the  author’s 
boating  propensities  to  know  that  the  voyage  was 
undertaken  in  a canoe  fabricated  by  his  own  hands 
of  paper,  on  a light  skeleton  of  laths.  The  whole 
of  the  voyage  was  accomplished  in  this  fragile 
craft;  but  it  is  only  honest  to  add  that  she  became 
leaky  before  it  was  over,  and  was  condemned  as 
unriverworthy  at  the  end.  Not  that  I think,  even 
now,  that  paper  is  a bad  material  for  canoes,  but  I 
had  not  then  (1866)  hit  upon  the  right  material 
for  gluing  it.  I employed  the  enduit  .Rtiolz,)  which 
takes  about  twelve  months  to  harden,  and  I had 
not  patience  to  wait  the  twelve  months;  so  the 
sheets  or  bands  of  paper  did  not  really  adhere,  and 
the  water  oozed  between  them  after  a while.  The 
proper  gum  to  use  for  fastening  paper  so  as  to 
resist  water  is  simply  a strong  solution  of  shell-lac 
in  spirits  of  wine.  I have  a canoe  at  present  and 
two  small  punts  which  are  made  of  thin  wood, 
lined  with  paper,  applied  with  shell-lac.  When  a 
leak  shows  itself  it  is  stopped  at  once  with  a bit  of 
paper  and  a touch  of  the  solution,  which  dries 
immediately.  An  English  oarsman  tells  me  that 
for  the  last  two  years  he  has  used  bits  of  calico 


Preface  to  the  A7nerica7i  Editiori,  xi 

with  the  same  solution  in  an  old  wooden  canoe, 
which  remains  serviceable,  thanks  to  the  shell-lac. 
One  result  of  the  voyage  narrated  in  this  volume, 
was  the  invention  of  a machine  which  is  a punt  by 
day  on  the  water,  and  a hut  by  night  on  shore, 
lart^e  enough  to  stretch  a hammock  in.  The 
American  reader  will  no  doubt  pardon  an  allusion 
to  these  fancies,  and  believe  them  compatible  with 
serious  work  in  other  ways.  If  it  is  boyish  to  like 
boating,  in  all  its  forms  (as  some  grave  and  wise 
men  seem  to  imagine),  I hope  to  remain  puerile 
yet  a little  longer.  The  cold  sapience  of  age  comes 
on  rapidly  enough  to  all  of  us;  and  it  is  not  a mis- 
fortune to  be  able  still  to  feel  an  irrational  delight 
in  a canoe  when  she  glides  in  safety,  and  an  impru- 
dent indifference  when  she  upsets. 

The  verses  at  the  beginning  of  this  book  were 
written  during  the  late  war,  in  anticipation  of  an 
attack  from  the  Germans,. which  took  place  shortly 
afterwards;  and  I witnessed  the  combat  for  many 
hours  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  between  Garibaldi, 
who  defended  Autun,  and  a strong  body  of  Bavari- 
ans who  attacked  it,  — not  exactly  the  moment  for 
descending  the  river  in  a paper  canoe!  Another 
chapter  was  added  that  day  to  the  long  history  of 
that  ancient  city  by  the  Arroux;  and  as  I watched 
the  flight  of  the  shells  in  the  clear  December  air, 
-and  saw,  beneath  the  moon,  the  flery  tongues  dart- 


xii  Preface  to  the  American  Edition, 

ing  from  the  mouths  of  the  enemy’s  guns,  I thought 
of  many  a former  siege  in  times  when  war  was  less 
noisy  and  less  bloody,  but  more  cruelly  protracted. 
How  little  I imagined,  when  writing  the  chapter 
about  Augustodunum  in  this  book,  that  I should 
see  an  army  in  battle  array  drawn  up  against  it,  — a 
dark,  thick  line  of  Germans  with  cannon  glittering 
at  intervals!  Yet  once  again  the  Roman  wall  rang 
in  echoes  to  the  war-trumpet,  and  once  again  the 
river  was  stained  with  blood! 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

The  Gate-Tower  at  Chaseux Title. 

On  the  Ternin i 

Pre  Charmoy 2 

Millery 5 

Voudenay-le-Chateau 8 

Danger  Ahead 1 1 

Near  Voudenay 12 

A Difficult  Place 13 

Crossing  a Field 15 

Chateau  of  Igornay 17 

Cathedral  and  Bishop’s  Palace,  Autun 19 

Towers  of  Autun 21 

Genetoie 23 

Near  Ornay 26 

Castle  of  Chaseux 28 

The  Moat  of  Chaseux 29 

Twilight  on  the  River 30 

Old  Houses  at  Etang 31 

Between  Etang  and  St.  Nisier 35 

Great  Oak  of  St.  Nisier 36 

Mill  at  St.  Nisier 38 

Rocks  at  St.  Nisier 41 

Blost 43 


XIV 


List  of  Illustrations. 


Page 

Between  Blost  and  Laboulaye 44 

Laboulaye 46 

Rock  in  Midstream 50 

Recuange  1 51 

Recuange  II 53 

Toulon-Sur-Arroux 54 

The  Bridge  of  Toulon 55 

Roche  Maladroite 58 

Gueugnon 61  ' 

Seeking  Shelter 63 

A Night  in  the  Canoe 64 

Portrait  of  Tom 66 

Bridge  of  Digoin 68 

River  Shore  near  Digoin 69 

s 


The  wild  rain  drives  in  gnsty  showers, 

A nd  past  the  moon  the  storm-clouds  Jly. 
The  river,  rising,  hurries  by 
The  gray  ‘ old  city  of  fair  towers.' 

The  bayonets  gleam  in  all  her  streets : 

All  hcjarts  are  anxious,  homes  are  sad — 
Oh,  when  shall  victory  make  them  glad, 
A nd  light  the  faces  that  one  meets  ? 

O River  ! 07ice  so  fair  and  clear, 

A'ow  dark  as  death  thy  currents  fow; 
They  7nay  be  redde7ied — who  can  k7iow? 
Before  the  closbtg  of  the  year. 

O River!  77zade  for  77ty  delight, 

I see  upo7i  thy  wi7it7y  food 
A foati7tg  corpse  — a stz'eak  of  blood, 
And fa7/ies  refected  m the  7iight ! 


October,  1S70. 


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Ti!E  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

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THE  UNKNOWN  RIVER. 


CHAPTER  I. 


^ a brifjht  afternoon  in  autumn  I lay  on  the  green 


bank  of  a little  stream.  The  stream  was  so  little 
that  m}^  dog  Tom  cleared  it  at  one  bound,  as  in  the  eager 
excitement  of  a wildly  impossible  chase  he  rushed  after 
flying  game.  Of  course  he  never  yet  caught  a bird  on 
the  wing,  but  his  faith  in  the  practicability  of  such  an 
achievement  does  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  shaken  by 
the  discouraging  lessons  of  a constantly  recurring  expe- 
rience. Only  a peregrine  falcon,  strong-winged,  sharp- 
taloned,  could  follow  and  slay  those  partridges,  but  Tom 
dashes  after  them  through  and  over  all  manner  of  obsta- 
cles, hoping,  by  perseverance,  to  attain  his  object,  like 
the  man  who  ran  after  the  express  train. 

Tom  is  a dog  of  immense  energy  when  out  of  doors, 
and  the  most  listless  indolence  at  home.  He  will  run  a 
hundred  miles  in  a day,  or  swim  fifteen,  but  he  will  not 
walk  across  the  room  without  the  most  elaborate  prepara- 
tion in  the  way  of  stretchings  which  he  believes  to  be 
necessary,  and  when  the  little  distance  is  at  last  accom- 
plished he  falls  down  with  a grunt  as  if  extenuated  by 
fatigue.  Another  peculiarity  of  his  is  the  wonderful 
difference  in  the  state  of  his  affections,  for  when  in  the 
open  air  he  is  in  the  highest  degree  grateful  for  the  least 


2 


The  Unhnown  River, 


word  or  gesture  of  his  master,  and  very  demonstrative 
himself,  whereas  in  the  studio,  where  he  passes  too  many 
tedious  hours,  he  has  scarcely  ever  been  known  to  ac- 
knowledge a caress  even  by  one  movement  of  his  tail. 
He  is  by  race  a setter,  and  seemed  destined  to  a sporting 
career,  but,  as  his  master’s  fowling-piece  has  not  been  used 
for  some  years,  Tom’s  instincts  are  quite  undisciplined, 
and  though  in  outward  appearance  the  finest  setter  in  the 
whole  neighborhood,  so  that  all  sportsmen  stop  and 
look  at  him  when  he  passes  by,  he  is  a lamentable  in- 
stance of  the  consequences  of  a neglected  education,  and 
almost  any  dog  of  the  same  breed  is  professionally  his 
superior,  if  only  he  has  passed  through  a proper  course 
of  discipline. 

We  digressed  into  this  talk  about  Tom  after  saying 
that  he  jumped  over  a brook.  The  brook  murmurs  over 
the  pebbles  about  a hundred  yards  lower  down,  and  we 
hear  the  refreshing  sound  coming  on  the  faint,  cool 
breeze  ; but  the  brook  is  very  calm  and  quiet  just  here, 
and  washes  its  sandy  banks  with  silent  regularity,  taking 
the  earth  away  grain  by  grain,  an  unceasing  agent  of 
waste,  and  author  of  endless  change. 

There  is  no  rest  to  faculties  wearied  by  labor  like  rest 
by  a quiet  stream,  on  a beautiful  afternoon  in  summer. 
If  you  distribute  your  work  wisely,  and  are  fortunate 
enough  to  ha\’e  work  of  a kind  that  may  be  done  at  your 
own  hours,  you  will  take  care,  when  the  da3^s  are  long, 
to  reserve  some  considerable  part  of  the  afternoon  as 
sacred  to  utter  idleness,  and  if  a quiet  stream  is  within 
an  easy  distance,  there  will  }'OU  go  and  rest.  Most  men 
under  such  circumstances  take  a rod  and  fish,  but  it  does 
not  always  happen  that  there  is  any  thing  which  the  dig- 
nity of  manhood  may  avow  an  interest  in  catching.  The 


\ . --"■ 


u 


m LlBeABY 
GF  IHi: 


fi 


An  Eichers  Voyage  of  Discovery. 


3 


man  who  rents  a salmon  river  in  Scotland,  or  even  the 
Englishman  whose  trout  stream  is  well  preserved,  may 
go  forth  with  the  implements  of  the  angler  and  a con- 
sciousness of  noble  aims.  But  can  anybody  past  bo}^- 
hood  pretend  to  take  an  interest  in  catching  minnows, 
unless,  indeed,  he  be  a Frenchman  who  has  just  landed 
a gvujon,  and  is  vain  of  the  exploit? 

It  is  curious  how  capable  we  all  are  of  seeing  people 
and  things  every  day  of  our  lives  without  being  once 
prompted  to  ascertain  any  thing  further  about  them, — 
whence  they  come,  whither  they  go,  what  their  past  has 
been,  or  what  may  be  reserved  for  them  in  the  future. 
The  inhabitants  of  great  cities,  being  satiated  by  the  con- 
tinual sight  of  innumerable  persons  and  things,  have  this 
indifference  in  the  most  strongly  developed  form,  but  it 
may  be  observed  in  the  country  with  regard  to  what  is 
most  commonly  seen  there.  For  instance,  brooks  and 
streams  are  very  commonly  met  with  in  all  northern 
countries,  and  therefore  very  few  people  ever  give  a 
thought  to  the  geography  of  them,  or  have  any  thing 
beyond  a very  vague  and  general  notion  of  their  course. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  region  through  which  the  stream 
passes  usually  know  it  at  bridges  and  fords,  and  farmers 
know  it  where  it  eats  away  the  land,  and  where,  in  times 
of  flood,  it  is  most  likely  to  leave  a deposit  of  sand  and 
pebbles ; the  angler,  too,  may  have  followed  it  for  a few 
miles,  and  some  professional  landscape-painter  or  ama- 
teur may  have  explored  a few  of  its  most  picturesque 
parts.  But  no  man  living  knows  the  whole  stream,  and 
so  there  is  always  a great  mystery  about  it,  and  any  one 
who  cares  to  follow  its  course  faithfully  may  enjoy  all 
the  keen  delights,  and  feel  all  the  unceasing  interest, 
which  belong  to  a true  exploration. 


4 


The  UnJmown  River, 


In  this  especial  sense  our  little  river  is  indeed  unknown, 
and  as  I lay  idly  on  its  bank  on  that  bright  autumn  after- 
noon, it  occurred  to  me  clearly  for  the  first  time  that  the 
river  came  from  far,  and  went  yet  farther,  that  it  was  not 
confined  to  the  fields  about  my  house,  and  that  this  little 
scene  was  not  a solitary  gem,  but  one  only  of  a thousand 
links  in  a long  chain  of  various  and  unimagined  beauty. 

Why  had  not  this  been  equally  clear  to  me  years 
before?  Why  do  we  dream  ever  in  one  place,  or  travel 
by  the  same'  weary  old  roads,  when  infinite  beauty  and 
novelty  are  open  to  us?  It  is  because  the  beauty  and 
the  novelty  are  so  very  near  to  us  that  we  miss  them, 
and  often  so  cheap  that  our  pitiful  small  dignity  despises 
them  as  something  puerile.  When  we  are  weary  of  the 
monotony  of  life,  and  the  whole  human  organism  longs 
for  the  refreshment  of  change,  we  would  go  to  the  end 
of  the  earth,  and  in  order  to  defeat  our  purposes  as  com- 
pletely as  possible,  carry  our  habits  with  us.  We  are 
accustomed  to  railways  and  newspapers,  to  bitter  ale  and 
sweet  tea,  and  we  seek  these  things,  and  a thousand 
others  that  habit  has  rendered  necessary,  wherever  on 
earth  we  go.  And  yet  change  more  refreshing,  and 
novelty  more  complete  are  here  within  one  day  of  slow- 
est travel,  than  in  journeys  to  Berlin  and  Vienna,  for  the 
truest  change  and  best  novelty  are  not  in  length  of  travel, 
but  in  the  abandonment  of  habit,  and  especially  in  the 
zest  of  free  and  personal  discovery. 

There  is  an  unfortunate  belief  that  this  glorious  pleas- 
ure and  passion  of  the  discoverer  are  not  now  to  be 
enjoyed  in  Europe.  It  is  supposed  that  since  every  State 
in  that  region  has  been  explored  by  many  travellers,  and 
even  more  or  less  accurately  surveyed  by  the  makers  of 
maps,  there  is  nothing  new  to  be  found  there.  The  rea- 


THt 
GF  THE 

GG’iVri.Sn'f  Sf 


CrV 


An  Etche7'''s  Voyage  of  Discovery, 


5 


son  for  this  appears  to  be  a confusion  between  the  genu- 
ine pleasures  of  the  discoverer  and  the  satisfaction  of  his 
pride.  Of  course  there  can  be  nothing  to  boast  of  in  dis- 
coveries such  as  those  here  narrated,  but  there  is  much 
to  be  enjoyed.  The  explorer  of  a nameless  European 
river  need  not  hope  to  be  remembered  like  Livingstone 
or  Speke,  but  he  may  set  forth  in  the  full  assurance  of 
finding  much  that  is  worth  finding,  and  of  enjoying 
many  of  the  sensations,  deducting  those  connected  with 
personal  vanity,  which  give  interest  to  more  famous 
explorations.  It  is  necessary,  however,  to  the  complete 
enjoyment  of  an  excursion  of  discovery,  that  the  region 
to  be  explored,  whether  mountain  or  river,  or  whatever 
else  it  may  be,  should  not  have  been  already  explored 
by  others,  or  at  any  rate  not  with  the  same  objects  and 
intentions.  A geologist  has  a certain  satisfaction  in 
marching,  hammer  in  hand,  over  a tract  of  country  not 
yet  conquered  for  geology  ; and  an  artist  likes  to  sketch 
in  secluded  valleys  where  it  is  not  probable  that  any 
artist  has  been  before.  On  the  same  principle  a traveller 
who  is  fond  of  boating  has  an  especial  pleasure  in  de- 
scending some  stream  of  which  it  may  be  safely  presumed 
that  nobody  ever  descended  it  in  a boat.  In  this  especial 
sense  there  is  much  yet  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  explora- 
tion, even  in  the  most  known  countries. 

No  sooner  had  these  ideas  formed  themselves  in  the 
writer’s  mind,  than  the  little  stream  b}"  which  he  was 
lazily  reclining  acquired  a new  importance,  and  the  low 
music  of  its  shallows,  instead  of  being,  as  formerly,  the 
lullaby  of  Mother  Nature,  became  an  awakening  call 
to  action,  and  a promise  of  joyful  change.  A thousand 
scenes  rose  rapidly  before  his  mind,  and  the  pipe  which 
had  languidly  yielded  half  an  hour  before  the  tiniest 


6 


The  Unkjwwit  River, 


pufTs  of  smoke  to  the  fragrant  air  now  gave  dense 
clouds,  in  which  the  smoker  saw  endless  visions.  He 
saw  the  deep,  calm  pools  under  the  rich  overhanging 
foliage  where  the  currents  fall  asleep  together,  like  tired 
children  that  have  filled  the  fields  with  their  merry  noise, 
till  weariness  fell  on  their  swift  limbs,  and  hushed  their 
happy  voices,  and  laid  them  in  silent  sleep  under  the 
soft  green  leaves.  He  saw  the  rapids  dashing  into  white 
foam  amongst  the  rocks,  and  the  kingfisher  glancing 
above  them  like  a sapphire-flash  in  the  sun.  He  saw 
the  picturesque  farms  and  cottages  by  the  unfrequented 
shore,  the  gray,  deserted  castles,  the  antique  cities, — 
the  remains  of  a thousand  years.  And  then  came  the 
majesty  of  the  effects  of  nature,  the  splendor  of  the  sun- 
set and  the  promise  of  the  dawn,  the  mysterious  poetry 
of  summer  twili^^ht  and  the  lonor  hours  alone  beneath 
the  moon. 

By  this  time  it  became  impossible  to  remain  quiet  in 
that  place  any  longer.  Tom  was  called  back  from  his 
vaixrant  courses  and  taken  into  his  master’s  confidence. 
Tom  listened  with  the  utmost  attention  whilst  the  novel 
project  was  explained  to  him,  and,  although  he  may  not 
have  clearly  understood  its  details,  he  perceived  at  least 
that  action  of  some  kind  was  meditated,  and  eagerly 
expressed  his  willingness  to  take  a share  in  it. 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery,  7 


CHAPTER  II. 


URING  the  last  few  years  the  noble  old  art  of  etch- 


JL_>/  ing  has  been  revived  by  many  painters.  Some 
of  m}^  friends  have  practised  it  with  distinguished  suc- 
cess, and  their  example  led  me  to  recur  to  an  art  which  I 
had  first  attempted  in  boyhood,  and  then  neglected  for 
many  years.  Of  the  means  at  my  disposal  for  the  illus- 
tration of  the  projected  voyage  none  seemed  better  than 
etching,  as  it  is  the  only  kind  of  engraving  which  can  be 
done  directly  from  nature,  and  the  only  engraving,  too, 
which  has  enough  of  the  spirit  of  liberty  to  harmonize 
with  such  a state  of  mind  as  that  of  a wandering  canoist. 
It  accepts  laborious  finish  when  the  artist  has  time  for  it, 
but  it  also  allows  of  rapid  sketching  when  he  is  in  a 
hurry.  So  it  was  decided  that  the  voyage  should  be 
written,  and  that  the  illustrations  should  be  etched  from 
nature  on  the  way. 

All  the  plates  being  prepared  at  home  in  my  own 
etching-room  (nearly  sixty  of  them),  I laid  them  on 
small  drawing-boards,  four  to  each  board,  and,  by 
means  of  two  very  small  screws  to  each  plate,  fixed 
them  to  the  board  so  as  to  resist  any  jolting  that  they 
might  be  exposed  to.  There  was  no  necessity  to  pierce 
the  plates  with  holes  to  receive  the  screws,  since,  by 
placing  the  screws  near  the  edge  of  the  copper,  the 
screw-heads  held  the  plates  firmly  enough.  I had  pre- 


8 


The  Unknown  River, 


viously  tried  many  experiments  for  the  carriage  of  plates, 
but  none  succeeded  so  well  as  this.  If  the  coppers  had 
been  all  of  'precisely  the  same  dimensions,  they  might 
have  been  carried  in  a grooved  box,  such  as  photog- 
raphers use  for  their  glasses ; and  this,  no  doubt,  would 
have  been  a considerable  economy  of  space,  and  would, 
at  the  same  time,  have  saved  the  weight  of  all  drawing- 
boards  except  one.^ 

Having  screwed  my  sixty  plates  to  a quantity  of  small 
drawing-boards,  I slipped  these  boards  into  several 
grooved  boxes ; each  box  provided  with  a lock  and 
key.  I then  calculated  the  probable  length  of  the  voy- 
age, and,  having  locked  my  boxes,  sent  them  to  inns  at 
dllTerent  distances  down  the  river,  to  await  my  arrival. 
Thus  I was  never  obliged  to  carry  more  than  one  box  of 
plates  at  a time.  It  is  unnecessary  to  go  into  the  detail 
of  my  other  preparations,  which  were  of  the  kind  now 
so  well  known  to  canoe-men,  and  to  all  who  take  an  in- 
terest in  canoe-travelling. 

Here  is  the  little  village  from  which  the  expedition 
started.  The  canoe  had  been  transported  thither  in  a 
cart,  and  as  we  arrived  in  the  evening  it  was  not  con- 
sidered advisable  to  begin  the  voyage  till  the  following 
day.  So  I dined  at  the  little  inn,  and  after  dinner  went 
out  to  walk  in  the  village  by  the  shore  of  the  narrow  riv^ 
ulet  I was  to  embark  upon  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  a clear,  bright  moonlight  night  (the  etching,  it 
may  be  well  to  observe,  is  intended  to  represent  a moon- 
light), and  I wandered  first  about  the  river,  and  then  in 
a small  valley  between  precipitous  little  hills.  I was  in 

* It  is  necessary,  however,  when  plates  are  carried  in  a grooved 
box,  without  being  fixed  to  a drawing-board,  to  revarnish  their  edges 
before  biting. 


THE  lIHRARY 
OF  THE 
'iSl^T  SF 


A n Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery. 


9 


the  heart  of  the  Morvan,  a highland  district  in  the  east 
of  France,  almost  unknown  to  tourists.  The  river  to  be 
explored  was  the  Arroux,  that  passes  by  the  antique 
Augustodunum,  and  flows  to  the  historic  Loire.  No- 
body had  explored  it  yet,  and  all  the  hazards  of  the 
enterprise  rose  before  me  as  I leaned  over  the  low  para- 
pet of  the  one-arched  bridge  at  Voudenay. 

The  stream  flowed  under  the  bridge,  after  a curve  like 
a snake  in  the  grass,  a silvery  snake  glittering  under  the 
moon.  It  came  from  a rustic  mill,  and  the  monotonous 
noise  of  the  mill-wheel  was  the  only  audible  sound,  ex- 
cept the  wash  of  the  swift  current  on  its  pebbly  margin. 
Beyond  the  bridge  the  stream  looked  dark  and  treacher- 
ous (for  the  moon  was  behind  me  then),  and  it  went  and 
buried  itself  in  a black  wood.  This  was  all  that  could 
be  seen  of  it  from  Voudenay.  It  was  very  narrow,  and 
wilful  and  swift,  and  it  hurried  away  into  the  black 
wood  as  if  it  had  some  deadly  uiiavowable  \vork  to  do 
there,  somebody  to  stifle  and  drown  in  the  awful  shade 
of  the  forest. 

What  would  this  adventure  bring  me  to?  No  man 
knew  the  river,  no  man  had  ever  known  it.  Its  course 
was  full  of  danjjers.  A thousand  strong  boughs  were 
waiting  for  me,  stretching  their  gnarled  and  knotty  arms 
across  the  stream.  There  were  festoons  of  briers  and 
thorns,  there  were  deep  black  pools  hidden  under  the 
intricate  branches,  there  were  roots  in  the  river,  and 
lower  down  I had  to  expect  sharp  rocks  also.  But  could 
I not  swim?  Yes,  in  water ^ but  not  amongst  stones  and 
snags.  Better  the  angry  waves  of  the  ocean,  than  these 
treacherous  suffocating  snares  ! 

There  was  just  so  much  of  apprehension  as  sufficed 
to  give  interest  to  the  adventure.  It  amounted  to  a cer- 


lO 


The  Unknown  River, 


tainty  that  I should  be  upset  (probably  more  than  once), 
and  have  to  struggle  for  dear  life,  but  it  was  not  so 
certain  that  I should  struggle  for  it  unsuccessfully.  I 
returned  to  the  little  inn,  and  had  a long  talk  with  a set 
of  peasants,  and  then  went  to  bed  in  a room  that  looked 
out  upon  the  river,  the  moonlight  falling  on  the  counter- 
pane. The  night  was  exquisitely  calm,  the  peasants  left 
the  inn,  and  all  the  house  was  still. 

I have  accustomed  myself  to  do  with  what  suffices  for 
the  peasantry,  and  can  therefore  lodge  in  the  poorest 
country  inn  or  cottage  without  any  painful  sense  of  pri- 
vation. This  is  a valuable  accomplishment  for  an  ex- 
plorer of  unknown  rivers,  who  may  have  to  lodge  very 
simply  from  time  to  time.  Thus,  my  first  night  I slept 
in  the  same  room  with  a farmer’s  boy,  my  second  with  a 
wheelwright,  and  my  third  with  the  family  of  a poor 
miller;  but  I always  had  a bed  to  myself  and  clean 
sheets  (though  coarse) . A sleepy  traveller  needs  no 
more.* 

We  are  afloat  at  last  on  the  little  river,  which  loses  its 
terrors  in  broad  daylight.  I am  in  the  paper  canoe,  and 
Tom  is  swimming  behind.  If  that  is  the  way  he  intends 
to  follow  me  during  the  whole  voyage  he  will  incur  much 
useless  fatigue.  Why  does  not  Tom  simply  run  along 
the  bank?  he  would  go  twice  as  fast,  with  a tenth  of  the 
fatigue.  I stop  the  canoe  and  reason  with  poor  Tom.  I 
explain  all  this  to  him  both  verbally  and  by  signs,  but 
his  only  answer  is  to  look  at  me  imploringly,  and  lift  up 
his  wet  old  nose,  and  splash  with  his  fore-paws,  and  put 
one  of  them  timidly  on  the  edge  of  the  canoe.  I remove 
the  paw,  and  use  one  word  of  menace  : the  sensitive 

* I much  prefer  the  independence  of  a tent,  but  in  this  voyage  it 
did  not  seem  practicable  to  carry  a tent  and  provisions. 


OX'  ILUliO-'i 


A n Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery. 


1 1 

creature  takes  an  expression  of  extreme  sadness  ; I have 
wounded  his  feelings.  I speak  more  kindly,  and  explain 
that  the  only  objection  is  to  his  bigness  ; that  he  is  dearly 
beloved,  but  unhappily  too  big  ; and  that  the  canoe  can 
never  carry  both  of  us.  The  kind  tones  encourage  him 
again  ; this  time  he  puts  both  paws  on  the  canoe,  and  is 
within  a hairbreadth  of  upsetting  her.  My  only  chance 
of  getting  the  great,  heavy,  clinging  paws  off,  is  to  hit 
their  owner  a smart  rap  on  the  nose  with  the  paddle. 

The  narrow  stream  winds  rapidly  between  banks  of 
gravel,  and  four  little  boys  are  running  along  the  shore, 
keeping  pace  with  the  swift  canoe.  Poor  Tom  cannot 
swim  quite  so  fast,  and  has  been  left  behind  for  several 
turns  of  the  river,  but  now  he  comes  galloping  like  a 
racehorse  across  the  fields.  Nothing  could  be  easier  and 
more  agreeable  than  the  voyage  has  hitherto  been,  but 
the  stream,  already  very  rapid,  runs  faster  and  faster, 
and  is  evidently  carrying  me  into  a dense  grove  of  trees, 
which  will  probably  be  long,  and  which  may  offer  very 
serious  difficulties.  The  worst  of  these  very  narrow  riv- 
ers is  that  there  is  not  room  to  use  the  paddle,  and  you 
are  carried  along  by  the  impetuous  current  with  a very 
slight  chance  either  of  stopping  yourself,  if  rushing 
upon  obvious  peril,  or  of  defending  yourself  against  the 
branches. 

Here  we  are  amongst  the  willows,  carried  rapidly 
down  a little  sylvan  tunnel,  three  or  four  feet  wide  and 
about  a yard  high.  It  is  wonderfully  beautiful,  if  one 
had  only  the  time  to  appreciate  its  beauty ; but  the  cur- 
rent is  so  strong  and  impetuous,  and  the  turns  are  so 
numerous,  that  there  is  hardly  time  to  think  of  any  thing 
but  the  management  of  the  canoe.  The  little  boys  are 
behind  somewhere,  I hear  their  loud  chatter  in  the  dis- 


12 


The  Unk7iow7i  River, 


tance,  and  a yelping  bark  from  Tom  informs  me  that  he 
is  yet  alive,  though  I know  not  whether  in  water  or  on 
land. 

The  first  insurmountable  obstacle  is  a young  tree,  lying 
quite  across  the  stream.  It  has  not  been  cut  down,  but 
the  water  has  eaten  away  the  earth  about  its  roots,  and  it 
has  fallen  across  the  current.  If  the  place  had  been  a 
little  more  open  I might  have  hauled  the  canoe  on  shore 
and  launched  her  a little  lower  down,  but  here  the  dense 
underwood  makes  that  manoeuvre  impossible.  Here 
come  the  little  boys  ! I have  a long  and  strong  cord  in 
the  canoe ; I tie  a stone  to  one  end  of  it,  and  throw  it 
over  a branch  to  a boy  on  the  other  side,  telling  him  to 
tie  it  to  the  top  of  the  fallen  tree.  Then,  with  the  branch 
for  a fulcrum,  I and  the  little  boys  on  my  side  pull  ver}^ 
hard,  and  gradually  the  little  tree  rises  and  rises  till  the 
course  is  clear.  After  overcoming  other  difficulties  with 
the  help  of  the  little  boys,  who  were  exceedingly  useful, 
I came  to  a place  where  the  river  was  less  impetuous, 
and  where  I had  leisure  to  admire  its  beauty.  The 
canoe  was  floating  pleasantly  through  a rich  wood  of 
oak  and  chestnut  with  here  and  there  a group  of  graceful 
poplars.  It  was  a constant  succession  of  scenes  like  the 
one  given  opposite,  whose  exquisite  loveliness  it  is  not 
easy  to  convey  by  Art. 


, IKE  UBftARY 
OF  IHE 
Sr  ILliliSlS 


1 •■■ 


gfte 

GKir -ssi  / ?»' 


*'  CF  iimsis 


A 71  Etchers  Voyage  of  Discovery. 


13 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  etching  which  illustrated  the  end  of  our  last 
chapter  was  done  on  the  copper  from  nature  at 
a little  place  that  seemed  convenient  for  lunch.  A few 
square  yards  of  firm  sand-bank  lay  between  the  dense 
underwood  and  a deep  pool,  and  this  sand-bank  was 
covered  with  short  grass.  The  canoe  was  drawn  up 
here,  and  her  owner  took  out  the  materials  for  luncheon, 
and  made  what  would  have  been  a solitary  meal,  if  Tom 
had  not  come  up  in  great  glee,  doubly  delighted  at  find- 
ing his  master  on  terra  fnna^  and  ail  the  signs  of  a 
festival  spread  out  around  him.  Tom  loves  his  master 
dearly,  but  his  affection  for  beef  and  mutton  is  at  least 
equally  strong,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  happiest  hours 
of  Tom’s  existence  are  such  hours  as  this,  when,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  excitement  of  travel,  and  the  free  expenditure 
of  his  immense  energy,  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  dining 
with  his  master  on  terms  of  something  like  equality. 
All  the  little  boys  had  now  been  left  behind  except  one, 
and  he,  unfortunately  for  his  own  interest,  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream.  I wanted  to  get  him  over 
and  invite  him  to  lunch,  and  crossed  for  the  purpose  in 
the  canoe  ; but  the  canoe  only  held  one  person,  and  the 
youth  did  not  sit  steadily,  so  that  before  we  were  two 
yards  from  the  shore  a capsize  seemed  inevitable,  and  I 
put  back.  After  luncheon  the  voyage  was  resumed  ; 
the  nature  of  it  will  be  best  gathered  from  the  etching. 


M 


The  Unk7iow7i  River, 


There  are  two  little  villages  in  the  region  where  I 
was  now  voyaging,  about  a mile  apart,  and  bearing  the 
same  name  of  Voudenay,  so,  to  know  one  from  the 
other,  the  inhabitants  have  called  them  Voudenay-l’Eglise 
and  Voiidenay-le-Chateau.  My  first  day’s  voyage  was 
from  one  of  these  villages  to  the  other,  total  distance  one 
mile.  The  reader  may  laugh  if  he  likes,  but  that  is 
about  the  proper  degree  of  speed  for  an  artist  on  his 
travels. 

After  dark,  as  I wished  to  get  a few  miles  lower  down 
the  stream,  I determined,  as  the  moon  did  not  rise  till 
rather  late,  to  continue  the  voyage  by  lamp-light.  The 
canoe  was  provided  with  a carriage-lamp  for  the  purpose, 
which  was  fixed  in  the  forepart  of  the  deck,  and  it  was 
found  quite  possible  to  pursue  a very  intricate  and  some- 
times even  perilous  navigation  by  the  help  of  this  artifi- 
cial light.  Where  the  narrow  river  was  most  thickly 
shaded  on  both  sides  by  dense  vegetation,  the  branches 
meeting  immediately  overhead,  and  festooned  with  over- 
hanging creepers,  the  lamp-light  gave  a strange  beauty 
to  the  scene ; and  as  the  canoe  floated  somewhat  rapidly 
down  this  little  green  corridor,  it  seemed  like  a voyage 
in  fairyland.  Every  tiny  leaf  and  spray,  eveiT  slender 
thread  of  stalk,  came  for  one  moment  out  of  the  black- 
ness of  night  into  the  full  brilliance  of  the  lamp-light, 
then  passed  into  the  darkness  behind.  An  endless  suc- 
cession of  this  inexhaustible  loveliness  made  the  nio'ht 

o 

voyage  one  continual  enchantment,  and  I was  not  sorry 
to  have  seen  a river  under  an  aspect  so  strikingly  new. 
There  exists,  unfortunately,  an  especial  difficulty  in  ren- 
dering the  peculiar  beauty  of  these  efiects  in  etching, 
and,  knowing  this,  I have  not  wasted  time  in  the  attempt. 
The  art  of  etching  cannot  reserve  white  lines  of  sufficient 


IKE  LiBBARY 
GF  TRE 


ur  ifii: 

3F  ILUwOlS 


S>.. 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 


IS 


thinness  and  purity  to  give  the  effect  of  lamp-light  on 
delicate  sprays  and  grasses.  The  effect  would  be  broadly 
given,  and  it  would  be  possible  enough  to  reserve  white 
lines, bat  not  with  the  fineness  necessary  to  do  full  jus- 
tice to  the  kind  of  delicacy  which,  in  subjects  such  as 
these,  would  become  the  particular  aim  of  the  artist. 
Nothing  struck  me  so  much,  in  this  delightful  little  vo}^- 
age  with  the  lamp,  as  the  exquisite  tenuity  of  the  smaller 
plants  as  they  came  out  with  tiny  leaves  and  stems 
against  the  black  void  of  night.  This  might  be  approxi- 
mately interpreted  in  wood-engraving,  which  most  natu- 
rally works  in  white  lines,  but  not  so  well  in  other 
processes.  It  was  found  that  this  voyaging  by  night 
added  considerably  to  the  interest  of  the  exploration,  for 
the  mystery  of  the  unknown  was  still  more  strongly  felt 
when  all  that  lay  before  us  was  in  absolute  darkness, 
and  only  became  suddenly  illuminated  as  the  lamp  ap- 
proached. 

He  who  attempts  the  exploration  of  a river  not  reputed 
navigable,  must  be  prepared  for  passages  of  such  extreme 
difficulty  that  it  may  be  necessary  to  remove  his  canoe 
altogether  from  the  water,  and  drag  her  over  the  dry 
land.  The  morning  after  the  voyage  by  lamp-light  I had 
a good  deal  of  such  work,  so  much  that  at  length  I lost 
patience  and  hired  a spring-cart  in  which  both  the  vessel 
and  her  owner  were  transported  by  a ffist-trotting  horse 
to  a place  four  kilometres  lower  down,  whilst  Tom  gal- 
loped along  the  road  with  a sense  of  freedom  much 
greater  than  any  which  he  had  enjoyed  amongst  the 
tangled  vegetation  of  the  river’s  bank. 

o O 


* For  example,  in  the  first  plate  in  this  series  (‘Unknown  River,’ 
Chap.  I.),  some  thin  stems  were  reserved  by  an  application  of  stop- 
ping-out varnish. 


i6 


The  Unknown  River, 


When  the  boat  was  launched  again,  the  stream  took 
quite  a new  character.  Instead  of  flowing  with  a cur- 
rent of  equal  breadth,  and  almost  equal  rapidity,  it  now 
alternately  slept  in  calm  pools  and  rushed  hurriedly  over 
short  pebbly  shallows.  It  is  difflcult,  in  words,  to  convey 
any  idea  of  the  variety  of  these  beautiful  pools,  except 
by  simply  saying  that  they  are  various.  If  there  were 
eighty  of  them,  or  a hundred  of  them,  or  however  many 
there  may  have  been,  there  were  just  as  many  new  and 
admirable  pictures.  The  shallows,  too  (though  in  passing 
rapidly  over  them  we  had  not  time  to  think  of  much  but 
the  safety  of  the  canoe),  were  by  no  means  the  least 
interesting  portions  of  the  voyage,  especially  when  they 
turned  mysterious  corners,  and  opened  out  new  glimpses 
down  the  stream.  At  length  we  came  to  a pool  so  very 
long  and  so  very  tranquil  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  would 
never  end.  The  canoe  glided  over  its  glassy  surface  for 
many  a long  minute,  and  just  as  the  explorer  rested  on 
his  paddle  and  the  little  vessel  had  gone ' forward  alone 
so  long  that  the  impetus  was  dying  gradually  away, 
something  unwonted  was  reflected  in  the  smooth  water, 
and  instead  of  the  accustomed  intricacy  of  boughs  and 
fluttering  of  innumerable  leaves,  the*  voyager  saw  great 
stones  as  of  a feudal  castle,  and  surely  on  the  green 
shore  there  stood  a great  ruin  ! 

Whoever  wishes  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  some  noble  ruin 
should  come  upon  it  in  this  unpremeditated  way.  One 
half  the  delight  of  it  is  in  the  surprise.  When  you  have 
been  told  at  starting  by  a guide-book,  that  ^ at  three 
miles  from  your  inn  is  such  a castle,  now  ruinous  but 
formerly  belonging  to  the  Counts  of,  &c.,’  and  read  the 
description  of  it  in  detail,  you  will  either  be  quietly 
pleased  or  provokingly  disappointed,  but  you  will  never 


■ WUeRAHY 
■ OF  THE 

tii'-Iv'EESfTY  OF  !lU!i013 


A n Etcher^ s Voyage  of  Discovery,  1 7 

feel  the  gladness  of  a delightful  surprise.  How  noble 
look  the  gray  old  towers  when  the  mind  has  been  occu- 
pied all  day  with  nature  and  forgotten  the  history  of 
man  ! What  a welcome  interruption  to  the  perpetual 
sylvan  harmony  ! 

This  ruined  Castle  of  Igornay  has  towers,  round  and 
square,  and  a great  court-yard,  now  full  of  the  pictur- 
esque of  a French  farm.  It  has  true  machicolations,  and 
must  have  been  a strong  place  formerly.  I found  a 
young  miller  at  the  mill,  who  was  more  intelligent  than 
lads  of  his  class  usually  are,  and  a diligent  reader  of  the 
newspaper.  All  the  recent  events  in  Italy  and  America 
were  familiar  to  him,  and  he  asked  me  a hundred  ques- 
tions. As  it  was  cold,  he  made  a blazing  fire  for  me, 
and  when  I left  helped  to  carry  the  boat,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  mill-weir.  There  are  some  shallows  just  below 
Igornay,  so  the  young  miller  waded  and  dragged  the 
boat  after  him,  wi:h  me  in  it,  till  we  got  into  deeper 
water ; he  would  not  hear  of  my  wading,  though  I told 
him  I was  accustomed  to  it,  and  it  would  do  me  no  harm. 
I paid  him  with  nothing  but  thanks. 

Few  hours  of  travel  have  ever  been  more  delightful 
than  those  which  now  followed.  A misty  morning  had 
ended  in  an  afternoon  of  brilliant  sunshine ; the  river 
was  seldom  less  than  three  or  four  feet  deep,  and  it  turned 
continually,  every  turn  offering  some  new  and  beautiful 
picture.  The  splendid  autumn  trees  burned  in  the  glow- 
ing light  against  the  pure  blue  of  an  unclouded  sky,  and 
their  long  reflections  trailed  in  glimmering  gold  on  the 
calm  surface  of  the  quiet,  sequestered  pools.  In  such 
delightful  scenery  as  this  two  or  three  miles  a day 
seemed  only  too  rapid  travelling  ; I longed  continually 
to  tie  the  boat  to  some  tree  and  etch  whilst  any  light 


1 8 The  Unknown  River. 

remained.  Soon,  however,  the  stream  narrowed  again, 
and  an  impetuous  current  rushed  under  closely  woven 
boughs,  and  between  many  awkward  snags.  Many  a 
place  seemed  impassable,  but  the  stream  was  too  swift 
and  too  narrow  to  admit  of  any  going  back,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  shut  one’s  eyes  and  dash  at 
the  branches  with  the  paddle  lying  useless  on  the  deck. 
Once  the  boat  was  jammed  between  a root  and  a tree 
where  the  stream  was  strongest,  but  I got  through  by 
pulling  at  the  tree  with  both  hands.  As  for  landing,  it 
was  out  of  the  question;  the7'e  was  no  land  to  he  seen ^ 
nothing  but  branches,  — branches  everywhere,  overhead, 
before,  behind,  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  with  an  im- 
petuous current  under  them,  strong,  swift,  and  deep. 
Then  I heard  a roar  of  water  amongst  rocks,  and  in  an 
instant,  turning  a corner,  found  myself  at  the  foot  of  a 
steep  hill,  thickly  wooded  as  far  as  I could  see;  and 
where  the  water  had-  eaten  into  the  hill  the  rocks  were 
bare,  a long  row  of  them,  and  there  were  stones  in  the 
stream,  over  which  it  boiled  with  white  foam.  However, 
there  was  paddle-room,  and  I was  really  far  safer  than 
live  minutes  before  under  the  branches.  Whilst  happily 
congratulating  myself  on  my  escape  from  so  many  diffi- 
culties, I turned  a sharp  corner;  a long  branch  lay 
athwart  the  stream  from  side  to  side,  two  feet  above  the 
water ; the  boat  passed  under  it,  but  I could  not  diminish 
myself  sufficiently  to  pass  under  it  too,  so  was  upset  in 
an  instant,  and  fell  in  head  first. 


■TKEUBIiARY 
OF  THE 

UKlVEBSilY  OF  lLU?iai3 


r- 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery,  19 


CHAPTER  IV. 


HE  shipwreck  that  ended  the  last  chapter  occurred 


-L  just  at  sunset.  After  a night’s  rest  in  a poor  cot- 
tage, the  voyage  was  resumed  in  the  brilliant  light  of  a 
new  and  cloudless  day. 

The  river  was  still  most  dangerous,  slipping  furtively 
and  fast  through  the  thickest  underwood,  turning  sharply 
in  unforeseen  ways  and  places,  like  a panther  in  the 
dense  jungle. 

At  last,  after  being  hurried  down  a narrow  channel, 
with  about  as  much  freedom  of  will  as  the  train  in  an 
atmospheric  tube,  we  came  suddenly  out  upon  a great 
open  pool.  This  was  the  confluence  of  the  Arroux  and 
the  Dree,  and  the  Arroux  had  doubled  his  substance 
by  this  alliance. 

Before  it,  he  had  been  a wild  young  rivulet  of  the 
most  imprudent  and  impetuous  character  ; after  it,  he  had 
times  of  leisure,  and  lived  in  visible  dignity,  an  impor- 
tant occupier  of  land.  Imagine  a constant  succession 
of  large  and  beautiful  pools  linked  together  by  rapid 
babbling  shallows  on  which  the  canoe  darted  gaily  and 
swiftly  without  grounding.  The  pools  were  deep,  with 
sloping  bottoms  of  the  finest  sand,  perfect  bathing-places 
every  one,  and  every  one  a picture. 

After  many  windings,  one  curve  of  the  beautiful  river 
disclosed  a noble  city,  rising  far  off  on  the  slope  of  a 
lofty  hill,  blue  in  the  haze  of  the  bright  afternoon,  with 


20 


The  Unknown  River. 


massive  walls  and  many  towers.  It  is  old  Augusto- 
dunum,  once  the  sister  of  Rome  and  her  rival,  since  then 
strong  in  the  middle  ages  with  all  the  picturesque  strength 
of  turret  and  battlement,  now  narrowed  till  within  the 
vast  enclosure  of  the  Roman  fortifications  the  market- 
gardener  grows  his  vegetables,  and  the  farmer  ploughs 
his  fields.  Still  by  the  quiet  river  the  Roman  wall  stands 
rugged,  rich  branches  hanging  over  it,  heavy  and  full, 
and  striving  to  reach  the  flowing  water.  And  the  Roman 
gate  still  augustly  receives  the  traveller  as  he  crosses  the 
bridge  over  the  Arroux,  its  gray  arches  and  pilasters 
borne  high  over  the  mighty  portals  with  a little  statue 
of  the  Virgin  between  them,  record  of  the  faith  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  a gas- lamp  to  prove  that  the  modern 
time  has  come. 

A great  and  wonderful  Roman  city,  one  of  the  noblest 
in  the  Roman  world,  stood  here  on  the  banks  of  the 
Arroux.  In  the  circuit  of  her  walls  were  more  than  two 
hundred  towers.  She  had  a great  amphitheatre,  and 
innumerable  temples,  and  theatres,  and  baths.  The  soil 
to  this  day  is  full  of  fragments  of  precious  marbles  from 
the  luxurious  Roman  dwellings.  For  a thousand  years 
the  earth  has  been  yielding  a harvest  of  antiquities,  still 
inexhaustible  ; columns,  and  statues,  and  bronzes,  and 
pavements  of  Roman  mosaic.  And  when  the  glorious 
Roman  city,  Soror  et  AexMULa  Romae,  was  utterly 
ravaged  and  destroyed,  there  arose  upon  her  site  a 
mediaeval  city,  smaller,  yet  not  less  beaut  ful,  so  that  a 
king  of  France  called  it  his  'City  of  Beautiful  Towers.’ 
But  the  mediaeval  city  has  disappeared  almost  as  com- 
pletely as  the  Roman.  The  classic  amphitheatre  is  razed 
to  the  ground  ; of  the  mediceval  cathedral  (a  great  edi- 
fice of  the  purest  Gothic)  there  remains  one  arch  in  a 


Lmm 

OFTS£ 

CF 


CD 


THE  1/8R4W 
Of  ie£ 


'§ 


An  Etcher s Voyage  of  Discovery. 


21 


garden.  The  present  cathedral  is  a church  which  stood 
under  the  shadow  of  the  old  one.  A few  fragments  of 
the  mediasval  city  remain  here  and  there,  the  house  of 
Rolin,  chancellor  of  Burgundy,  now  a carpenter’s  shop, 
a tower  of  the  old  Donjon,  and  here  and  there  a few 
houses  of  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century.  Still 
Autun  is  a picturesque  and  quaint  place,  full  of  endless 
subjects  for  an  etcher. 

If  there  is  any  thing  in  the  history  of  the  past  that  can 
move  or  interest  the  present,  the  past  of  this  strange  city 
cannot  leave  us  cold.  Who  could  float  here  on  the 
Arroux,  close  to  the  Roman  wall,  without  thinking  of  all 
that  has  happened  here,  by  the  shore  of  this  now  peace- 
ful river?  A simple  catalogue  of  the  vicissitudes  of  this 
city,  unparalleled  in  the  succession  of  her  misfortunes, 
reads  like  some  marvellous  poem.  The  story  of  all  her 
sieges  has  a Homeric  grandeur. 

First  she  was  ravaged  by  Tetricus.  After  a resistance 
of  seven  months  she  was  punished  by  the  conqueror  of 
Tetricus,  Aurelian.  Ruined  by  German  hordes  in  the 
third  century,  she  was  sacked  again  under  Diocletian. 
For  twenty-five  years  she  lay  prostrate  in  her  ashes,  and 
the  lands  about  her  were  untilled.  She  was  punished 
again  by  Constantins  after  the  defeat  of  Magnentius. 
She  was  besieged  by  Chonodomarus  and  Vestralphus; 
and  after  that  by  the  Vandals  ; and  after  that  by  the  Bur- 
gundians ; and  then  by  Attila,  who  massacred  the  inhabi- 
tants and  reduced  the  whole  place  to  ashes.  Childebert 
and  Clotaire  ruined  the  city  on  the  flight  of  Godmar. 
The  Saracens  sacked  Autun  ; the  Normans  sacked  it  in 
886,  and  a few  years  later  Rollo  pillaged  it  again.  After 
the  battle  of  Poictiers  the  English  came  and  burnt  part 
of  the  city.  Admiral  Coligny  came  and  burnt  a priory 


22 


The  Unknown  River, 


and  the  palace  of  an  abbot,  pillaging  the  abbey. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  Autun  was 
besieged  by  the  Marshal  Daumont,  and  her  archives 
used  for  gun-wadding. 

There  are  great  incidents  in  her  history;  the  martyr- 
dom of  St.  Symphorien,  the  visit  of  Bishop  Proculus  to 
Attila.  The  reader  ma}^  remember  the  great  picture  by 
Ingres,  of  the  young  Symphorien  led  by  the  Roman 
lictors  to  execution,  his  mother  encouraging  him  from 
the  wall.  And  if  Symphorien  sacrificed  himself  for  his 
faith,  Proculus  did  the  same  for  his  fellow-citizens.  He 
went  to  Attila’s  camp  to  entreat  him  to  spare  the  city,  and 
Attila  beheaded  him. 

A memorable  circumstance,  in  another  way,  was  the 
A'isit  of  Constantine  to  Autun.  Constantine  had  raised 
the  city  from  ruin  and  despair rebuilt  her  edifices,  re- 
established her  schools.  Finally  he  came  in  person  with 
his  court.  The  expression  of  the  people’s  gratitude 
moved  him  to  tears.  He  forgave  them  five  whole  years 
of  taxes. 

The  saddest  history  connected  with  the  city  is  that  of 
poor  Queen  Brunehault,  early  in  the  seventh  century. 
She  wished  to  place  her  grandson  (she  had  four)  on  the 
throne  of  her  son  Tyherri,  who  was  dead.  Clotaire  II. 
had  the  four  sons  arrested.  The  queen  herself  was 
arrested  near  the  lake  of  Yverdun,  and  taken  to  Clo- 
taire’s  camp  in  Burgundy.  Three  days  of  torture  ended 
by  a derisive  promenade  on  a camel  through  the  camp. 
Her  grandsons  were  slaughtered  before  her  eyes ; then 
she  herself  was  tied  to  the  tail  of  a wild  horse.  Her 
body  was  brought  to  Autun  and  laid  in  a marble  tomb. 

But  the  cfi'andest  and  noblest  action  of  all  that  shed 
lustre  on  the  antique  city,  is  the  refusal  of  the  Count  de 


TKt  LIBHARir 
OF  THE 
OF  llliiiOiS 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery,  23 

Charni  to  execute  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
There  were  eight  hundred  Calvinists  in  the  place,  and 
the  order  came  to  slay  them ; but  the  advocate  Jeannin 
recommended  the  Bailly,  de  Charni,  to  disobey  the 
royal  mandate,  and  they  spared  the  Calvinists,  to  their 
own  eternal  honor.  In  his  disobedience  De  Charni 
had  the  boldness  to  tell  the  king  that  he  wished  to  leave 
him  time  to  reflect  upon  orders  issued  in  anger ; and  the 
Chancellor,  on  reading  De  Charni’s  letter  to  his  majesty, 
observed,  — E'est  tm  juge  de  'village  qui  nous  frescrit 
noire  devoir  V 

The  bishops  of  Autun,  when  newly  appointed,  used 
to  make  a solemn  entry  into  their  city.  They  had  an 
episcopal  residence  at  Lucenay  (an  exquisitely  beautiful 
little  place  amongst  the  hills),  and  the  new  bishop  left 
this  residence  in  state.  But  he  did  not  enter  Autun  at 
once.  First  he  stopped  at  the  monastery  of  St.  Andoche, 
without  the  walls,  and  the  abbess  was  obliged  to  enter- 
tain him  and  all  his  retinue.  Near  the  convent  there 
was  a country-house  called  Genetoie,  and  the  proprietor 
of  it  was  obliged  to  give  the  bishop  hot  water  for  his 
feet,  an  obligation  much  less  heavy  than  that  which  fell 
upon  the  abbess.  The  bishop  went  to  Genetoie  to  await 
the  arrival  of  the  chapter.  When  they  came  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  closed  door  of  the  cloister,  and  was 
refused  admission  twice,  answering  each  time  that  he 
was  the  bishop  of  Autun.  The  third  time  he  was 
admitted,  and  took  the  oath. 

The  accompanying  illustration  shows  all  that  remain 
of  the  house  of  Genetoie  as  it  appeared  when  islanded 
by  the  flood  of  1866. 


24 


The  Unknown  River. 


CHAPTER  V. 


HE  bishops  made  their  entry  into  the  city  by  the 


X bridge  of  St.  Andoche,  but  one  of  them  went  out 
of  it  again  by  the  other  bridge,  and  his  carriage-wheels 
rattled  on  the  road  to  Paris,  and  in  Paris  he  took  up  a 
new  trade  which  he  practised  with  the  most  distinguished 
success.  Can  you  fancy  Talleyrand  as  a bishop,  going 
about  gravely  in  violet,  and  giving  his  precious  benedic- 
tion? All  the  portraits  I ever  saw  of  him  represent  him 
in  court  dress,  and  nothing  is  more  difficult  than  to  rid 
one’s  self,  even  temporarily,  of  an  association.  The  con- 
verse difficulty  is  that  of  imagining  Pius  IX.  as  an 
officer  of  dragoons.  Had  it  been  possible  to  see  the 
two  together,  in  the  garb  of  their  first  professions,  who 
would  have  guessed  which  was  to  become  a famous  pope 
and  which  an  equally  celebrated  diplomatist? 

When  Autun  was  left  behind,  the  river  went  for  half 
a mile  in  such  a stately  manner  that  anybody  would 
have  given  it  credit  for  being  navigable  in  the  most 
serious  sense  of  the  word,  — navigable  for  vessels  laden 
with  much  more  valuable  merchandise  than  the  mate- 
rials of  an  unpopular  art.  In  this  long,  quiet  reach  the 
lads  from  the  college  came  to  practise  themselves  in 
swimming,  and  this  led  me  to  think  about  three  youths 
who  ma}^  have  bathed  here  not  so  very  long  ago,  but 
whose  history  was  at  least  as  romantic  as  that  of  the 


A 71  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discove7y, 


25 


Greek  and  Roman  heroes  they  read  about  in  their  text- 
books at  the  college.  One  of  these  youths  was  called 
Neapoleonne  de  Bounaparte,*  and  the  two  others  were 
brothers  of  his.  Napoleon  did  not  remain  quite  four 
months  at  the  college  of  Autun  (the  fact  is  unknown  to 
all  his  biographers),  but  his  brother  Joseph  stayed  here 
as  many  years.  Napoleon’s  little  cell  (the  colleges  had 
cells  in  those  da3^s)  still  existed  two  or  three  years  since. 
It  was  positively  known  to  be  one  of  the  five  or  six  that 
remained,  but  which  there  was  no  means  of  ascertain- 
ing. 

At  length  the  towers  of  Autun,  which  showed  them- 
selves in  glimpses  during  the  windings  of  the  river,  and 
completed  in  this  way  a hundred  pretty  compositions, 
disappeared  finally  behind  a spur  of  hill  clothed  with  a 
dense  pine-forest.  Once  more  the  canoe  floated  on  a 
quite  lonely  river  without  evidence  of  human  labor  or 
habitation,  except  now  and  then  the  smoke  of  a distant 
farm,  or  the  cry  of  the  drivers  of  oxen,  generally  the 
name  of  each  animal,  sung  out  with  a musical  cadence. 
It  was  pleasant  to  get  into  the  perfect  country  again, 
though  Autun  scarcely  seems  a city,  and  the  Arroux 
flows  past  it  undisturbed  by  human  interference,  except 
when  the  strong  brown-skinned  horsemen  ride  up  to 
their  waists  in  the  water,  and  the  fishermen  cast  their 
nets. 

Westwards  rose  the  blue  mass  of  the  Beuvray,  where 
recent  investigations  have  fixed  the  site  of  a city  older 
than  Augustodunum,  the  Bibracte  of  the  Gauls.  But 
Bibracte  is  almost  without  a history.  Caesar  went  there, 
and  said  that  it  was  a great  stronghold,  and  took  provi- 
sions from  it  for  his  army,  but  left  us  scarcely  a word  of 

♦ So  entered  on  the  college  books. 


26 


The  Unknown  River. 


description.  Bibracte  can  never  have  been  more  than 
a great  fortified  hill-village,  or  Gaulish  of^idtun^  com- 
posed of  very  rude  huts,  huddled  close  together,  and 
protected  by  solid  walls  built  in  the  strong  Gaulish  wajs 
with  logs  nailed  together  with  huge  nails,  and  earth  and 
stone  between  them.  Floating  down  the  river  in  the 
evening  I savv  the  last  flames  of  sunset  die  behind  the 
Beuvray,  and  the  majesty  of  its  purple  crests  was  en- 
hanced by  its  ancient  strength.  What  is  on  the  hill- 
crest  now?  On  the  site  of  the  buried  city  is  a forest  of 
old  gnarled  beeches,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  forest  stands 
a little  camp  of  huts,  where  an  antiquary  passes  his  sum- 
mers, with  a band  of  faithful  men.  Even  now,  I thought, 
in  the  evening,  he  is  standing  on  some  brow  of  rock, 
and  looking  over  the  boundless  plains.  He  can  see 
the  lands  beyond  the  Loire,  and  the  whole  course  of  the 
river  that  I am  obscurely  exploring.  And  when  the 
twilight  comes,  and  his  evening  walk  is  over,  he  will  go 
to  his  wooden  hut  and  sleep  amidst  his  trophies.  A 
pleasant,  enthusiastic,  absorbed  life  he  has  of  it  up 
there  ! He  tells  me  that  there  is  danger  in  the  delight 
of  it,  the  danger  of  a too  complete  abandonment  to  the 
enjoyment  of  glorious  nature  and  the  dear  antiquarian 
dream.  He  has  a charming  house  in  the  city,  with  its 
salons  filled  with  pictures  and  its  museum  with  antiqui- 
ties, and  only  a rough  hut  up  there  on  the  mountain  ; 
but  every  year  as  the  summer  comes  he  longs  for  the 
little  hut,  and  the  free  range  of  the  wild  forest,  and 
the  fresh,  high  air,  and  the  silence  and  the  calm,  and 
the  healthy  days  of  toil,  an.d  the  lonely  evening  walks 
about  the  hill,  and  the  vast,  illimitable  horizons.  Who- 
ever has  once  known  this  passion  for  wild  nature,  never, 
whilst  health  lasts,  can  lose  it.  There  comes  upon  him 


27 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 

every  year,  first  a vague  uneasiness,  then  a craving  and 
longing  for  something,  he  knows  not  what,  and  then  he 
begins  to  dream  at  night  of  regions  beautiful  and  wild. 
The  streets  of  the  town,  even  the  spacious  country- 
house,  begin  to  feel  like  prisons,  and  he  wants  to  get  out 
into  the  forest,  or  on  the  mountain,  or  float  on  flowing 
rivers  and  tossing  seas. 

In  consequence  of  having  etched  the  little  plate  which 
the  reader  has  just  seen,  I had  to  paddle  some  miles 
after  sunset,  and  did  not  reach  the  next  village  until 
darkness  had  fairly  set  in.  The  river,  fortunately,  pre- 
sented few  of  those  dangers  which  had  been  so  frequent 
in  the  earlier  part  of  its  course.  There  were  a few 
rapids  here  and  there,  but  not  dangerous  rapids,  and 
now  and  then  one  of  those  disturbed  places  called  ' re- 
moiisi  produced  by  sudden  alterations  in  the  form  of  the 
river’s  bed,  often  at  a considerable  depth.  On  the  whole, 
however,  the  river  was  safer  here  than  anywhere  else  on 
its  whole  course  until  it  reached  the  plain  of  the  Loire, 
and  this  will  be  readily  understood  after  a few  words  on 
the  geology  of  the  district.  The  basin  of  Autun  is  a 
wide  valley  hollowed  in  the  rock,  formerly  a lake-bed, 
and  afterwards  filled  to  the  brim  with  alluvial  deposits. 
It  is  through  these  deposits  that  the  river  cuts  its  serpen- 
tine course,  and  so  long  as  it  has  to  do  with  nothing  but 
soft  loam,  and  sand,  and  little  rounded  pebbles,  the  navi- 
gation is  safe  and  easy.  But  when  we  come  to  the  thick 
granite  lif  of  the  great  basin,  we  shall  find  that  the  stream 
suddenly  takes  a new  character.  It  is  a lowland  river  in 
the  basin  of  Autun,  a highland  stream  for  twenty  miles 
as  it  crosses  the  rocky  edge  of  the  basin,  and  after  that  a 
lowland  river  again  as  it  meanders  through  the  plain  of 
the  Loire.  This  accounts  for  my  getting  safely  to  the 


28 


The  Unknown  River, 


inn  after  dark ; a little  lower  down  all  night-travelling 
was  out  of  the  question.  ^ 

But  at  the  inn  there  was  not  a bed  to  be  had,  so  I went 
to  a country-house  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  belong- 
ing to  a rich  land-owner  whom  I did  not  know  personally, 
but  who  had  an  encouraging  reputation  for  hospitality. 
Going  to  beg  a night’s  lodging  at  a private  house  where 
you  are  unknown  requires  more  assurance,  I think,  than 
any  thing  I ever  attempted. 

The  master  of  the  mansion  was  absent.  The  butler 
put  his  head  out  of  a bedroom  window  and  heard  my 
petition.  The  butler  was  a very  decent  fellow ; he 
dressed  himself,  and  came  downstairs,  and  kindly  heard 
all  I had  to  say.  For  a moment  I believed  the  difficulty 
overcome,  but  unluckily  the  favorable  impression  which 
I had  succeeded  in  making  on  this  man’s  mind  availed 
me  nothing,  for  the  supreme  authority  was  the  house- 
keeper. She  put  her  face  out  of  a window,  an  ugly  vis- 
age whose  thousand  wrinkles  were  strongl}^  illumined  by 
a candle  in  her  skinny  hand,  and  one  glance  assured  me 
that  she  would  be  inexorable.  Nothing  could  be  more 
decided  than  her  refusal.  And  they  talk  of  the  tender- 
heartedness of  women  ! 

How  and  where  I passed  that  night  shall  be  a mystery. 
How  do  vagrants  and  vagabonds  pass  theirs? 

This  castle  is  the  Castle  of  Chaseux,  a picturesque 
old  ruin  by  the  river-side,  in  a charming  situation.  The 
effiect  is  more  picturesque  in  the  etching  than  in  the 
reality,  because  he  who  only  sees  the  drawing  does  not 
realize  the  curiously  small  scale  of  the  towers.  They 
are  decidedly  the  tiniest  towers  I ever  saw  in  any  castle 
of  feudal  times ; but  they  looked  larger,  no  doubt,  when 
they  had  their  pepper-box  roofs.  For  the  rest  the  place 


TKE  LIOBARY 
GF  TE 

IINIYEESIIY  GF  ilUiOiS 


M liBRARr 
Of  IM 

Hfiimiif  5F  ilUfiOiS 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 


29 


is  not  without  grandeur,  and  it  has  some  literary  interest 
as  an  occasional  residence  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  with 
that  cousin  of  hers,  Roger  de  Rabutin,  Count  de  Bussy, 
commonly  called  Bussy  Rabutin.  How  she  could  ever 
forgive  him  his  offences  against  decency,  and  his  slan- 
ders against  herself,  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
womanly  heart.  I never  had  the  curiosity  to  read  any 
thing  of  Bussy’s  except  a few  of  his  brevities.  One  does 
not  care  to  plunge  into  dirty  v ater ; it  is  enough  for  me 
that  Bussy  shocked  Louis  XIV.  (not  an  eminent  model 
of  virtue)  to  such  a degree  that  the  indignant  monarch 
first  put  him  into  the  Bastile,  and  afterwards  banished 
him  to  his  estates  in  Burgundy.  Here,  at  Chaseux,  he 
spent  part  of  his  seventeen  years  of  exile ; and  it  is  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  instances  of  the  irony  of  fate, 
that  the  portrait  of  this  wretched  noble,  who  disgraced 
his  family  and  his  age,  actually  now  hangs  in  the  little 
village  church  where  he  heard  mass,  hangs  over  the 
altar,  and  does  duty  as  a saint.  The  dress  and  accesso- 
ries have  been  repainted,  to  suit  the  present  destination 
of  the  work,  but  the  worldly,  seventeenth-century  face 
looks  still  out  of  its  flowing  wig,  between  the  tall  candles 
on  the  altar.  And  the  priest  kneels,  and  the  people  bow, 
and  the  incense  rises  before  it ! 


30 


The  Unknown  River, 


CHAPTER  VI. 


HIS  etching  is  intended  to  represent  one  of  those 


X effects  of  twilight  on  the  river  which  are  amongst 
the  charms  of  a lonely  voyage.  You  see  the  great 
masses  of  the  magnificent  trees,  but  you  hardly  see  the 
dark  ground  they  stand  upon,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  tell 
where  the  water  ends  and  the  land  begins.  For  the  full 
enjoyment  of  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  scenery  should  be 
previously  unknown  to  you,  that  the  sense  of  mystery 
may  be  felt  in  its  fullest  intensity  ; but,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  ought  not  to  be  any  apprehension  of  danger.  It  is 
after  a day  of  peril  and  adventure  that  you  most  enjoy 
the  peace  of  the  solemn  gloaming,  when  the  reaches  of 
the  river  sleep  in  their  glassy  calm,  and  the  heron  lifts 
himself  languidly  on  the  breadth  of  his  great  gray 


wings. 


The  heron  is  not  mentioned  by  accident  or  put  in  for 
the  sake  of  a poetical  effect.  He  was  there.  He  passed 
the  canoe  like  a winged  shadow,  and  then  rose  in  the 
calm,  pure  air.  Just  then  came  a great  flock  of  rooks, 
and  as  they  were  flying  about  four  hundred  feet  above 
me,  the  heron  attained  nearly  the  same  altitude.  The 
impertinent  rooks  attacked  the  noble  bird,  (fit  game  for 
peregrine  falcons  !)  and  they  plagued  him  and  insulted 
him  till  he  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  But  he  pre- 
sented his  sharp  long  beak  to  his  assailants,  and  after 


m UBP-HRY 

■l^s 

' ■ . 

• '•  ■'  ;,',>U  ^.. 


71I£  Llgfi/illJ' 


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An  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Discovery,  31 

teasing  him  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  they  left  him  to  take 
his  lonely  way  in  peace. 

Danger  a-head  ! O captain  ! hearest  thou  not  the  roar 
of  the  rapid? 

It  was  time  to  cease  gazing  up  into  the  unfathomable 
blue  ; it  was  time  to  get  a firm  seat  and  grasp  the  paddle 
well ! No  more  enjoyment  of  the  poetry  of  the  twilight, 
only  a wish  for  the  ' light  of  common  day,’  wherein  all 
sweet  illusions  fade. 

It  was  a great  rapid  amongst  boulders,  the  largest  of 
which  were  as  big  as  the  room  you  are  sitting  in,  dear 
reader.  They  were  scattered  to  the  right  and  to  the  left, 
and  one  or  tw'o  ugly  fellows  apparently  barred  the  way. 
The  channels  were  narrow  and  deep,  and  the  water 
hissed  and  twisted  amongst  them  like  serpents.  A yel- 
low glimmer  from  the  evening  sky  shone  on  the  swift 
currents,  and  said,  * I show  you  all  their  complexity  — 
select ! ’ 

After  another  rapid,  apparently  much  less  dangerous 
than  the  first,  and  in  reality  (as  often  happens)  much 
more  so,  the  author  arrived  at  Etang,  a little  old  village, 
with  two  fine  bridges  and  a railway  station  just  built. 
There  were  some  good  subjects  for  etching  in  this  place, 
especially  the  old  houses  near  the  river. 

A relic  of  great  interest  for  me  (who  have  a peculiar 
weakness  for  tents  and  encamping)  is  preserved  at  the 
house  of  a rich  man  in  the  neighborhood  of  Etang.  It  is 
a fragment  of  the  famous  pavilion  of  Charles  the  Bold, 
which  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  victorious  Swiss,  after 
the  battle  of  Granson.  The  faded  glory  of  its  magnifi- 
cent embroidery  recalled  the  costliest  of  all  the  countless 
tents  that  ever  trembled  at  the  blast  of  trumpets,  and 
such  is  the  power  of  great  associations,  that  the  last  rag 


3^ 


The  Unk7iowii  Rivei^, 


and  remnant  of  a splendor  which  dazzled  men’s  eyes 

four  hundred  years  ago  gives  poetry  to  the  house  where 

it  is  preserved,  and  to  the  very  landscape  that  lies 

around  it. 

/ 

Etang  possessed,  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  the  ugliest 
church  (and  this  is  saying  a great  deal)  ever  erected  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  Preparations  were,  however, 
being  made  for  rebuilding  it  in  a better  form,  and  as  the 
new  church  was  to  be  rather  larger  than  the  old  one 
it  was  necessary  to  make  new  foundations  in  the  sur- 
rounding graveyard.  This  disturbed  numbers  of  crosses 
which  marked  the  graves,  and  these  crosses  were  thrown 
all  together  into  a corner.  The  graves  themselves  had 
to  be  cut  through,  and  as  the  workmen  simply  dug  the 
new  foundation  without  troubling  themselves  about  the 
bodies,  they  often  cut  them  in  two,  so  that  many  a dead 
man  had  his  legs  amputated  or  his  head  cut  off  in  a 
manner  quite  unforeseen  by  his  friends  and  relatives 
when  they  interred  him  near  the  old  church  wall.  The 
writer  witnessed  some  incidents  of  this  kind  which  were 
not  much  to  his  taste,  and  when  the  new  church  stands 
in  the  glory  of  its  Gothic  arches  and  groined  vault,  and 
windows  of  brilliant  stained  glass,  if  ever  he  visits  the 
place  again  he  will  never  be  able  to  see  the  stately  walls 
of  the  fabric  without  thinking  of  the  mutilated  remains 
on  each  side  of  their  deep  foundations. 

Two  fine  hills  are  visible  from  Etang,  not  mountains, 
but  true  hills  of  noble  aspect  with  rocky  heights  and  deep 
ravines.  One  of  these  is  the  Beuvray,  mentioned  in  the 
preceding  chapter  as  the  probable  site  of  Bibracte,  and 
exactly  opposite  to  the  Beuvray,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river,  is  the  hill  of  Uchon,  which  may  not  have  been 
the  site  of  a Gaulish  place  of  strength,  but  which  still 


Tfi£  LigfiAny 
GF  TflE 

ssiry  CF  iUMis 


An  Etcher^ s Voyage  of  Discovery,  33 

carries  on  its  rocky  height  the  tall  fragment  of  a mediae- 
val castle,  once  of  considerable  extent.  I determined  to 
explore  this  hill  in  detail,  and  gave  a whole  day  to  it, 
with  two  guides  — a village  schoolmaster,  who  kindly 
offered  his  services,  and  a fine  boy  who  was  one 
of  his  best  scholars.  The  first  thing  to  be  seen  was  a 
rocking-stone,  a natural  curiosity  of  sufficiently  frequent 
occurrence  to  need  little  description  here.  This  stone, 
commonly  called  ' La  Pierre  qui  croule,’  or  by  abbrevia- 
tion 'La  pierre  croule,’  is  nearly  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  in 
a large  wood.  Without  the  help  of  my  guide  I could  not 
possibly  have  found  it.  As  in  the  case  of  other  rocking- 
stones,  many  attempts  to  remove  it  from  its  pivot  have 
been  made  by  stupid  peasants,  who  have  harnessed 
oxen  to  it  with  ropes  ; but  the  stone,  which  weighs  nearly 
thirty  tons,  has  alwa3^s  resisted  all  such  attempts  to  de- 
prive it  of  its  peculiar  virtue  and  pre-eminence.  When 
set  in  motion,  its  movement  is  so  regular  and  sure  that  it 
cracks  nuts  without  injuring  the  kernel ; and  as  the 
schoolmaster  was  provided  with  nuts  for  the  occasion, 
and  we  had  a bo}^  with  us  willing  to  eat  them,  I had  the 
opportunity  of  verifying  this. 

The  'Pierre  qui  croule’  is  close  to  a deep  ravine,  and 
near  it,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  were  many  magnifi- 
cent groups  of  rocks.  Wherever  a plough  could  be 
driven,  even  on  the  very  summit,  the  land  was  cultivated, 
and  the  cottages  of  the  peasantry  were  scattered  amongst 
the  rocks  in  the  little  fields.  The  hill  has  an  industry 
of  its  own,  that  of  sabot-making,  due  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  forest.  I and  my  companions  called  at  a 
cottage  which  was  a workshop  of  sabotiers^  and  were 
very  kindly  received.  As  I was  very  thirsty,  I begged 

the  saboticrs  to  give  me  a drink  of  water,  which  one  of 

3 


34 


The  Unknow7i  River.  < 


them  immediately  did,  in  a perfectly  clean  but  most 
extraordinary  cup  — a new  sabot.  I had  some  rum  in  a 
flask,  and  offered  a drink  to  all  present,  on  which  the 
four  workmen  and  three  visitors  provided  themselves 
with  sabots,  and  having  half  filled  them  with  water, 
passed  the  flask  to  flavor  it.  A little  incident  occurred 
then  which  amused  and  delighted  me  by  its  quaintness 
and  originality.  It  was  proposed  to  trinqiier^  to  klink,* 
and  the  seven  sabots  were  solemnly  struck  against 
each  other  in  token  of  good-fellowship.  They  were  not 
the  most  elegant  of  cups,  and  they  did  not  ring  very 
musically  when  struck ; but  after  drinking  out  of  glasses 
all  one’s  life,  it  may  be  an  agreeable  novelty,  for  once, 
to  drink  out  of  a wooden  shoe.f 

Uchon  is  the  quaintest  little  hill-village  that  I ever  met 
with  in  my  travels.  Perched  on  the  very  highest  and 
steepest  part  of  the  hill,  not  safely  on  the  summit,  but 
on  the  slope  just  below  it,  the  village  commands  a 
view  of  immense  extent.  There  is  not  a place  of  equal 
height  for  sixty  miles  before  it,  and  the  eye  ranges  to  the 
illimitable  plain  of  the  Loire.  It  is  just  the  site  for  a 
feudal  castle,  and  accordingly  we  find  the  last  remnant 
of  one,  a tall  fragment  of  wall,  leaning,  like  the  Tower 
of  Pisa,  over  the  narrow  road,  with  a fine  Gothic  fire- 

* The  old  Shakespearian  word. 

t What  added  to  the  fun  was  that,  in  addition  to  the  schoolmaster 
and  boj,  a friend  of  mine  accompanied  me,  who  is  a dignitary  of 
Autun  (not  mentioned  in  the  text  for  that  reason),  and  it  was  highly 
comic  to  see  his  dignity  condescend  to  such  a drinking- vessel.  Some 
time  afterwards,  an  old  gentleman  who  had  heard  of  this  incident,  but 
did  not  know  the  name  of  my  companion,  told  the  story,  with  the 
remark  that  ‘ no  eccentricity  could  astonish  one  in  an  Englishman,  but 
the  wonder  was  how  Mr.  flamerton  could  find  a Frenchman  to  share 
his  freaks.’  ‘ That  Frenchman,’  replied  the  dignitary  above  mentioned, 
who  happened  to  be  present,  ‘ was  myself.’ 


An  Etcher^ s Voyao^e  of  Discovery, 


35 


place  high  up  its  side  where  the  floor  once  was,  and 
where  the  lady  sat  in  her  lofty  chamber,  and  looked  out 
on  the  world  below.  The  most  curious  thing  at  Uchon 
is  the  church,  which  simply  follows  the  slope  of  the 
ground,  the  floor  in  the  interior  being  as  steep  as  the 
hill-side  on  which  the  edifice  is  built.  As  the  altar  is  at 
the  higher  end,  the  efiect  produced  is  really  fine,  and 
might  be  worth  imitating  artificially. 

The  walk  was  enlivened  by  a continual  conversation 
with  the  schoolmaster,  who  was  even  more  intelligent 
than  his  usually  intelligent  class.  Amongst  other  inter- 
esting things,  he  mentioned  several  words  which,  so  far 
as  he  had  been  able  to  ascertain,  were  peculiar  to  the 
place.  Two  of  these  were  especially  interesting  — the 
verb  dottier i to  suffer  (Lat.  dolere),  and  the  substantive 
vialcj,^  a foot-path  (diminutive  of  via) . 

The  writer,  in  his  descent  of  the  mountain,  was  in 
that  state  of  excitement  peculiar  to  landscape-painters 
when  they  find  themselves  in  a place  full  of  good  mate- 
rial for  study.  The  foregrounds  were  excellent,  espe- 
cially the  magnificent  old  trees,  and  the  groups  of  oxen 
and  peasants  in  the  steep  little  fields  composed  in  a 
charmingly  accidental  way.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that, 
being  anxious  to  resume  my  voyage,  I had  not  time  to 
etch  upon  the  mountain,  and  the  next  etching  I did  was 
at  noon  on  the  following  day,  when  I had  landed  in  a 
quiet  place  for  lunch,  and  the  canoe  lay  idly  on  the 
water. 


3^ 


The  Unknown  River, 


CHAPTER  VII 


HE  river  now  flowed  through  very  majestic  sylvan 


X scenery,  equal  in  some  places  to  the  finest  parts 
of  the  Thames,  and  curiously  destitute  of  every  thing 
that  we  in  England  are  accustomed  to  consider  especially 
French  in  character.  The  banks  were  often  rocky,  and 
the  foregrounds  rich  in  heather  and  fern,  with  immense 
quantities  of  broom.  Out  of  this  rose  gigantic  oaks,  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  any  park  in  England^  Here 
is  a sketch  of  the  trunk  of  one  which  I found  to  be  fifty 
feet  in  circumference. 

This  noble  tree  was  in  every  respect  one  of  the  most 
perfectly  and  equally  developed  I ever  met  with.  Suf- 
ficiently isolated  for  its  growth  not  to  be  in  the  least 
interfered  with,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  not  too  much 
exposed  to  any  prevailing  wind,  its  massive  column  rose 
straight  upwards,  and  its  enormous  branches  (themselves 
equal  to  considerable  trees)  spread  equally  in  every 
direction.  I have  only  given  the  trunk  here,  because 
the  attempt  to  represent  the  whole  tree  always  failed  to 
give  any  notion  of  its  vast  dimensions.  Its  crown  of 
foliage,  too  perfect  and  too  regular  to  be  picturesque, 
was  like  a sylvan  world  erected  on  a pedestal.  At  some 
distance  the  tree  did  not  strike  one  as  being  particularly 
big,  probably  on  account  of  its  beautiful  proportions, 
and  the  not  inconsiderable  size  of  its  neighbors ; but 


TKE  imm 


(SPJvr 


'■'’eiTV  6F 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 


37 


ance  under  the  shade  of  the  great  branches,  the  spectator 
suddenly  becomes  aware  of  the  weight  and  size  of  the 
enormous  limbs,  and  then  makes  deductions  concerning 
the  strength  of  the  trunk  that  can  support  them.  The 
impression  is  completed  by  making  the  tour  of  the  trunk. 
The  whole  tree  is  perfectly  sound,  and  neither  lightning 
nor  human  hand  has  ever  lopped  off  one  branch. 

An  impression  prevails  in  England  that  the  French 
are  indifferent  to  sylvan  beauty,  probably  because  wood 
is  their  principal  fuel,  and  therefore  an  immense  destruc- 
tion of  young  trees  takes  place  yearly  in  the  forests, 
whilst  the  peasants  amputate  the  arms  of  the  older  ones. 
They  often,  however,  preserve  fine  timber  for  ornament 
as  we  do,  and  I learned  without  surprise  that  the  fine 
oaks  of  which  the  giant  just  described  was  the  chief  and 
king,  enjoyed,  in  consequence  of  a decree  of  the  owner 
of  the  soil,  absolute  immunity:  from  the  axe.  Many  trees 
in  the  same  neighborhood,  especially  the  old  chestnuts, 
must  count  their  age  by  centuries,  and-  the  beeches  that 
crest  the  Beuvray,  though  not  finely  developed,  owing 
to  the  altitude  of  their  situation,  give  every  evidence  of 
antiquity.  The  park  of  Monjeu,  an  estate  belonging  to 
tlie  Talleyrand  family,  near  Autun,  is  full  of  magnificent 
timber  even  yet,  though  much  was  destroyed  by  the 
imprudence  of  a man  of  business,  who,  in  the  owner’s 
absence,  sold  it  to  a contractor.  The  haste  with  which 
this  unfortunate  contract  was  annulled,  at  a heavy  loss, 
so  soon  as  M.  de  Talleyrand  became  aware  of  what 
had  been  done,  is  a proof  that  he  valued  the  timber 
for  something  more  than  its  mere  salableness.  But  the 
best  evidence  that  the  French  are  not  indifferent  to  the 
beauty  of  their  trees  is,  that  scarcely  a single  town, 
however  insignificant,  is  without  its  public  avenues,  in 


38 


The  Ujiknown  River, 


which  the  trees  are  encouraged  to  attain  their  fullest 
possible  development.  What  English  town,  of  equal 
population,  has  any  thing  comparable  to  the  magnificent 
avenues  that  encircle  Sens? 

The  navigation  during  this  part  of  the  voyage  was 
more  agreeable  to  the  traveller  himself  than  likely  to 
prove  interesting  when  narrated.  Here  and  there  the 
rocky  bed  of  the  stream  produced  narrow  passes  of  a 
trifling  degree  of  difficulty,  and  after  them  the  river 
widened  into  long  and  tranquil  reaches,  over  which 
drooped  the  heavy-leaved  branches,  dipping  their  ex- 
tremities in  the  deep  water  that  reflected  them.  At 
length,  when  these  were  gilded  by  the  refulgence  of 
sunset,  the  sound  of  a mill-wheel  became  audible  in  the 
distance,  and  that  pleasant  rush  of  water  that  may  indi- 
cate either  a rapid  or  a weir.  Then  a village  church 
came  into  sight,  and  finally  a few  roofs  of  picturesque 
mossy  thatch,  which  turned  out  to  be  the  whole  village. 

The  church  was  one  of  those  simple  old  Romanesque 
edifices  which  abound  in  this  part  of  France.  The 
architects  of  to-day  have  broken  with  the  Romanesque 
tradition,  and  in  order  to  get  more  imposing  effects  of 
height  and  size,  have  adopted  a very  plain  kind  of 
lancet-gothic.  But  for  a little  village  church  I think 
nothing  can  be  so  well  adapted  as  the  Romanesque, 
with  its  tiny  apse  and  aisles,  and  its  general  air  of  snug- 
ness, completion,  and  solidity  on  a most  unpretendingly 
small  scale.  A little  Romanesque  church  never  seems 
to  need  any  thing  more;  but  a very  plain,  tall,  lanky, 
modern,  gothic  church,  with  its  invariable  gawky  tower 
at  the  west  end  looks  hungry  and  uncomfortable,  as  if 
the  architect  had  been  pinched  in  his  financial  conditions, 
which  he  very  generally  is,  and  at  the  same  time  obliged 


iv 


A 71  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Discoveiy,  39 

to  give  as  many  square  yards  of  wall  as  possible  for  the 
money.  ^ 

The  church  of  this  little  village  of  St.  Nizier  had  been 
closed  at  the  Revolution  and  never  opened  since.  The 
inside  was  full  of  straw,  and  my  canine  companion  rolled 
his  wet  hide  upon  it  in  a manner  which  appeared  to 
indicate  that  he  would  consider  it  very  eligible  bedding 
if  we  stayed  all  night  there.  Seeing  no  sign  of  any 
thing  like  an  inn  amongst  the  half-dozen  cottages  which 
constituted  the  whole  burgh,  I felt  greatly  inclined  to 
accept  the  dog’s  suggestion  ; but  although  the  church 
was  an  ample  and  sufficiently  comfortable  bedroom,  one 
could  not  hope  to  find  any  dinner  there.,  and  I looked 
about  the  small  cottages  if  haply  there  might  dwell 
therein  some  man  or  woman  skilled  in  the  preparation 
of  food.  Now  a certain  observant  villager,  seeing  me 
thus  in  quest  of  something  which  I had  not  found,  came 
with  much  courtesy  and  proffered  me  his  services  ; and 
it  turned  out  that  this  villager  was  in  a position  to  be  par- 
ticularly useful  to  a traveller,  for  he  was  at  the  same  time 
innkeeper  and  mayor,  a man  capable  at  once  of  nour- 
ishing the  stranger,  and  casting  over  him  the  aegis  of 
political  protection.  He  lived  in  a small  cottage  whose 
worst  defect,  in  my  view,  was  that  of  being  alarmingly 
damp.  It  had  been  submerged  in  a great  flood  which 
had  happened  a few  weeks  before,  and  the  walls  were 
still  full  of  moisture  that  oozed  out  from  the  plaster  on 


* One  of  these  churches  was  erected  lately  in  a certain  commune, 
and  when  the  plans  had  been  made  I asked  the  priest  what  sort  of 
architecture  had  been  determined  upon;  but  neither  the  priest,  nor  the 
inaire,  nor  any  other  notable  of  the  place,  could  tell  me,  the  fact  being 
that,  though  the  plans  had  been  presented  for  their  august  approval 
and  honored  therewith,  they  did  not  know  the  difference  between  one 
sort  of  architecture  and  another. 


40 


The  Ujiknown  River, 


every  side.  However,  here  I stayed  two  nights,  and 
contended  against  the  damp  by  means  of  a blazing  fire 
and  warm  bedding;  The  place  was  rather  amusing,  for 
the  inn  was  at  the  same  time  the  village  shop,  and  my 
bed  was  in  the  shop  itself,  so  I had  ample  opportunities 
for  studying  the  inhabitants  of  the  place.  As  all  the 
villagers  went  to  bed  about  sunset  they  did  not  disturb 
my  privacy  in  the  evening  ; but  they  began  their  shop- 
ping at  such  an  uncommonly  early  hour  in  the  morning 
that  it  was  rather  a perplexing  matter  how  and  when  to 
go  through  the  business  of  dressing.  The  most  amusing 
plan  seemed  to  be  to  lie  quietly  in  bed  and  watch  them, 
but  this,  though  agreeable  to  a sluggardly  mind,  did  not 
especially  advance  my  own  projects.  One  thing  struck 
me  very  much,  and  that  was  the  total  absence  of  any 
visible  stock-in-trade,  yet  notwithstanding  this  apparent 
deficiency  every  article  in  demand  alwa3^s  came  forth  at 
once. 

The  innkeeper  was  a man  of  some  culture,  and  both 
could  and  did  read,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of 
most  French  villagers  of  his  class.  I found  books  in 
his  house  which  interested  me  exceedingly,  especially 
'Cliarton’s  Histoiy  of  France,’ which  is  carefully  illus- 
..trated  from  authentic  memorials  of  preceding  centuries, 
not  with  fancy  compositions  invented  by  some  artist  of 
our  own.  host  was  doing  what  he  could  to  increase 

the  free  libraiy  in  the  village,  already  considerable 
enough  to  be  a great  treasury  for  a poor  student.  He 
took  me  to  see  it,  and  I certainl^^  had  not  expected  to 
find  a libraiy  in  a place  where  there  was  not  a tiled  roof, 
nor  even  a priest. 

Every  one  who  has  travelled  (unless  he  be  a down- 
right gourmand)  will  probably  have  remarked,  that  it  is 


An  Etcher^ s Voyage  of  Discovery,  41 

nol  the  places  where  we  have  fared  most  luxuriously 
which  usually  leave  the  most  agreeable  impression  upon 
the  mind.  At  the  fine  places,  we  expect  too  much,  I 
think,  and  are  almost  always  either  disappointed  or 
within  a very  little  of  being  so.  I have  heard  a whole 
carriage  full  of  men  do  nothing  but  grumble  and  swear 
as  they  drove  home  after  a most  extravagant  Greenwich 
feast,  and  I have  seen  the  same  men  quite  happy  and 
contented  with  a slice  of  beef  and  potatoes.  In  this 
latter  frame  of  mind,  which  expects  nothing,  and  is 
always  satisfied  with  what  fortune  sends,  did  the  present 
writer  stay  his  two  nights  at  St.  Nizier,  and  he  left  it 
with  a pleasing  impression,  as  he  walked  down,  paddle 
in  hand,  towards  the  rocky  shore,  his  canoe  being  borne 
with  great  ceremony  behind  him  by  the  mayor  himself 
and  one  of  the  most  active  and  influential  members  of 
the  Common  Council.  Nevertheless,  it  may  be  ac- 
knowledged that  the  beautiful  scenery  lower  down  the 
river  was  not  a whit  the  less  attractive  for  the  fact,  that 
a renowned  French  cook  kept  an  hotel  somewhere  in 
those  more  favored  regions,  an  hotel  where  a man  might 
not  only  eat,  but  dine. 


42 


The  Unknow 71  River, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FTER  St.  Nizier  the  river  became  even  more  pic- 


turesque  as  it  proceeded.  Rushing  swiftly  and 
merrily  between  willowy  islets  it  carried  the  traveller 
along  with  very  little  consideration  for  his  private  tastes 
and  preferences.  The  only  possible  exercise  of  choice 
was  at  the  moment  of  selecting  the  channel ; after  that, 
retreat  was  simply  out  of  the  question,  and.  all  that  could 
be  done  was  to  keep  as  clear  of  accident  as  might  be. 
A river  voyage  has  been  compared  over  and  over  again 
to  the  course  of  human  life,  and  no  wonder,  for  the 
simile  holds  good  in  the  minutest  details,  especially  in 
such  a voyage  as  this.  How  very  important,  for  exam- 
ple, and,  at  the  same  time,  how  very  difficult,  it  is  to 
choose  the  right  channel  when  several  lie  before  you  of 
which  you  are  about  equally  ignorant ! If  you  have 
made  a mistake,  if  you  have  chosen  the  wrong  profession 
or  the  wrong  wife,  then  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  try  to 
get  along  as  safely  and  creditably  as  you  can,  and  avoid 
an  upset  if  possible.  If  the  mistake  has  been  made  it 
cannot  be  unmade,  but  skill  and  courage  may  still  often 
save  a man  from  its  most  disagreeable  consequences. 
There  are  lives  which  must  be  as  easy  as  it  would  be  to 
paddle  down  the  broad  Loire  with  the  ordnance  map  in 
your  pocket,  which  shows  the  safest  way  everywhere ; 
but  these  existences  lose  in  interest  what  they  gain  in 


THE  LIBRABY 


*.1» 


An  Etchers  Voyage  of  Diseovery. 


43 


safety,  and  the  most  interesting  life  to  live,  like  the  best 
river  to  explore,  is  one  in  which  the  course  is  not  known 
in  detail  beforehand,  but  constantly  calls  for  the  exercise 
of  skill  and  judgment,  and  is  even  to  some  degree 
affected  also  by  pure  hazard. 

The  tiny  hamlets  on  the  shores  of  the  river  were  often 
very  beautiful  in  their  way,  or,  at  least,  very  picturesque, 
and  quite  unspoiled  by  any  modern  perfections,  and  reg- 
ularities of  brickwork  or  of  roof.  Many  of  the  best  of 
these  hamlets  are  of  great  antiquity.  I know  one  where 
the  cottages  have  not  received  any  important  addition, 
and  have  not  been  repaired  in  any  other  sense  than  that 
of  simply  replacing  parts  as  they  decayed,  for  the  last 
four  or  five  hundred  years.  And  the  life  in  them  has 
followed  the  same  unswerving  tradition.  The  language, 
the  religion,  the  customs  of  the  inhabitants,  remain 
almost  precisely  what  they  were  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  oxen  are  yoked  to  the  char  as  they  were  centuries 
ago,  the  char  itself  is  a precise  copy  of  that  used  by 
remote  ancestors  ; the  ploughs  and  other  implements  of 
agriculture  are  untouched  by  modern  improvement.  We 
know  little  of  the  lives  that  are  led  in  these  out-of-the-way 
cottages  and  hamlets,  because  it  is  so  difficult  for  us  to 
get  rid  of  London  and  Paris,  of  literature  and  science, 
and  modern  thought  and  reflection ; so  difficult  to  realize 
what  .a  life  must  be  which  neither  London  nor  Paris  influ- 
ence in  any  perceptible  way  whatever,  a life  quite  beyond 
the  range  of  literature,  inaccessible  even  to  the  cheapest 
of  cheap  newspapers,  ignorant  of  every  thing  which 
makes  us  men  of  the  nineteenth  century  instead  of  the 
fifteenth  or  the  tenth.  This  simple  patriarchal  existence 
will  not,  however,  endure  very  much  longer ; the  light 
of  modernism  is  breaking  in  upon  it  already  here  and 


44 


The  U^tknown  River. 


there,  through  chinks  in  its  ancient  walls.  It  is  difficult 
to  find  a place  which  is  forty  miles  from  a railway,  and 
the  railway  brings  its  influences  with  it.  A youth  leaves 
the  parental  cottage  for  some  distant  place,  and  when  he 
comes  back  gives  his  parents  some  rude  notions  of  geog- 
raphy. The  region  through  which  flows  'the  Unknown 
River  ’ is  so  near  to  the  Alps  that  their  white  crests  may 
be  seen  occasionally  from  the  summits  of  these  hills,  yet 
the  peasants  are  not  aware  that  the  Alps  exist.  Once, 
however,  a young  man  went  to  work  at  Grenoble,  and 
he  came  back  and  told  the  people  in  his  village  that  there 
were  high  mountains  on  which  the  snow  never  melted, 
even  in  the  heats  of  summer.  This  is  the  wa}^  a little 
knowledge  comes  to  them ; it  comes  personally,  by  oral 
communication,  not  by  books.  A soldier  comes  back 
from  Mexico,  and  tells  them  that  Mexico  is  beyond  the 
sea.  I was  greatly  astonished  at  the  little  hamlet,  here 
faithfully  represented,  to  hear  a man  of  saddened  aspect 
speak  of  Boston.  'What  Boston?’  I asked,  wondering 
how  he  should  know  of  any  Boston  unless  there  were 
such  a place  quite  near  to  him  in  France.  'It  is  of  Bos- 
ton in  the  United  States  of  America,  that  I am  speaking, 
sir,’  answered  the  man  of  the  sad  countenance,  astonish- 
ing me  more  and  more,  for  what  French  peasant  knows 
that  the  United  States  exist,  or  the  Atlantic  Ocean  either? 
So  then  he  told  me  his  tale,  and  as  it  is  both  a pretty 
tale  and  a true  one,  I repeat  it  here  for  the  reader. 

It  is  simple  and  short  enough.  He  and  his  wife  were 
very  poor  indeed,  almost  destitute,  and  so,  though  they 
loved  each  other  much,  she  went  out  as  a nurse  to  Paris. 
In  Paris  she  entered  the  service  of  some  rich  Americans, 
who,  when  they  returned  to  their  own  country,  offered 
her  terms  so  tempting  that  she  crossed  the  Atlantic  with 


An  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Discovery, 


45 


them.  Year  after  year  she  sent  her  earnings  to  her  hus- 
band, and  year  after  year  he  laid  by  the  hard-won  gold 
until  there  was  enough  of  it  to  buy  the  cottage  he  lived 
in,  and  a little  field  or  two,  enough  to  keep  them  in  inde- 
pendence all  their  lives.  He  took  me  into  the  cottage, 
and  showed  me  his  wife’s  portrait  (blessings  on  photog- 
raphy, that  enables  a poor  man  to  have  a portrait  of  the 
absent  or  the  dead  !)  and  kissed  it  tenderly  in  my  pres- 
ence, and  said  how  hard  the  long  separation  was,  and 
how  he  looked  for  her  return.  As  he  said  this  the  tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  showed  me  the  bright  good 
walnut  furniture  in  the  cottage,  and  the  fields  by  the  river 
side,  and  said  that  all  this  comfort  was  her  doing,  all  this 
wealth  her  winning.  She  had  learned  to  write  on  pur- 
pose that  she  might  write  to  him,  and  month  after  month 
her  kindly  letters  came,  cheering  him  under  the  long 
trial  of  her  absence.  It  was  four  years  since  she  had 
left  the  cottage,  and  for  these. four  lonely  years  the  father 
had  been  like  a widower,  and  the  children  had  grown 
around  him.  And  now  the  months  went  ever  more  and 
more  slowly,  as  it  seemed,  when  he  wanted  them  to  go 
faster,  for  this  very  autumn  she  was  to  sail  and  come  to 
enjoy  the  peace  she  had  created.  May  the  ship  that 
brings  her  paddle  prosperously  across  the  wide  Atlantic, 
and  the  good  woman  find  her  way  in  safety  to  her  own 
cottage,  and  to  the  loyal  heart  that  yearns  and  waits  for 
her  so  wearily  ! 

‘Fair  stands  her  cottage  in  its  place 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly,  slowly  glides; 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides.’ 

The  character  of  the  river  became  more  and  more 
strikingly  picturesque  as  it  advanced  towards  the  Loire. 


46 


The  Unhnown  River, 


Promontories  of  rock  jutted  into  the  stream,  which  took 
sharp  curves  under  steep  and  richly  wooded  banks,  and 
went  to  sleep  in  out-of-the-way  corners,  where  it  made 
wonderfully  perfect  and  tranquil  harbors  for  the  canoe. 
Sometimes  there  would  be  a ruin  on  some  height,  which 
though  on  a small  scale,  was  not  without  grandeur,  and 
afterwards  the  rich  meadows  and  woods  descended  to  the 
level  of  the  water.  Then  came  a loner  decline  where  the 
water  rushed  over  a thousand  dangerous  crests  of  rock, 
and  after  that  a pool  so  long  and  sleepy  and  quiet  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  river  had  finally  made  up  its  mind  not 
to  flow  any  more,  but  to  lie  for  ever  in  that  place  like  a 
fish-pond.  However,  when  it  did  awake  and  start  again, 
it  started  with  such  freshness  and  energy  that  the  inter- 
val of  rest  had  evidently  done  it  good,  and  it  went  gam 
bollintr  amonofst  the  rocks  in  a manner  which,  if  not 
absolutely  alarming  to  the  canoist  (one  never  confesses 
to  feelings  of  serious  alarm)  did  at  least  call  for  the  best 
exercise  of  his  skill. 

In  this  manner  we  came  to  one  of  the  very  loveliest 
places  I ever  saw  in  the  course  of  all  my  wanderings,  a 
place  where  a rich  avenue  came  down  to  the  water’s 
edge.  I left  the  canoe  and  walked  up  between  the 
stately  trees.  When  the  long  avenue  came  to  an  end  I 
found  myself  in  a noble  demesne  with  a little  lake,  and 
an  island  in  the  middle  of  it.  On  that  island  once  stood 
a noble  feudal  castle,  where  royal  guests  have  been  enter- 
tained, and  the  castle  lasted,  in  all  its  strength,  till  the 
last  century,  when  a great  fire  gutted  it  from  roof  to 
basement.  It  would  have  been  a noble  ruin,  but  the 
Marquis,  its  proprietor,  in  sheer  anger  at  the  accident, 
utterly  effaced  every  vestige  of  the  stronghold  of  his  an- 
cestors, so  that  literally  not  one  stone  remains  upon 


Or  IBc 

OUP/EESI]  if  ijf  lUlHOj 


ClJ 


47 


An  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Discovery, 

another.  An  exquisite  old  gateway,  of  the  loveliest 
Renaissance  work,  with  sculpture  as  delicate  as  that  of 
Melrose,  has  been  re-erected  at  a little  distance  by  the 
present  owner,  who  inhabits  a simple  modern  house. 
He  intends  to  build  a new  castle  more  worthy  of  his 
ancient  name  ; but  an  ancestral  mansion,  once  destroyed, 
can  never  be  replaced.  Even  an  ancient  avenue  may 
be  replaced  in  time ; young  trees  will  grow  old,  and  they 
succeed  each  other  naturally  in  generations,  but  the  real 
feudal  castle  is  one  of  those  things  that  neither  man  nor 
nature  restores  when  once  it  is  destroyed  and  lost.  We 
may  build  an  imitation  of  it,  but  not  the  thing  itself;  the 
spirit  that  created  it  has  departed,  never  to  return. 
There  was  something  terribly  childish  in  the  anger  of 
that  old  marquis  ! The  flames  had  destroyed  the  wood- 
work; and  so,  in  a pet  he  finished -what  they  could  not 
achieve,  and  levelled  all  his  towers  !•  •• 


48 


The  Unknown  River, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A CERTAIN  critic  in  the  'Athenaeum’  has  lately 
accused  the  author  of  this  little  narrative  * of 
'intense  egotism,’  and  not  very  long  since  somebody 
complained  that  he  talked  too  much  about  his  dog. 
Now,  in  the  present  chapter,  if  the  story  of  the  voyage 
is  to  be  faithfully  narrated,  there  ought  to  be  a thrilling 
account  of  a perilous  and  extraordinary  shipwreck,  but 
if  the  writer  is  neither  to  talk  about  himself,  nor  his  dog, 
nor  any  thing  that  is  his,  how  is  he  to  tell  the  tale? 
The  truth  is,  that  if  you  listen  to  critics  you  will  never 
publish  any  thing.  One  critic  dislikes  the  egotistic  bits, 
another  hates  all  landscape  descriptions,  another  cannot 
endure  any  allusion  to  past  history,  another  feels  bored 
by  any  thing  resembling  philosophical  reflection,  a fifth 
scorns  the  repeater  of  an  anecdote,  and  so  on;  till,  if 
you  try  to  please  them  all,  simple  abstinence  from  writ- 
ing is  the  only  thing  possible  for  you.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  eliminate  one  of  these  elements  in  order  to 
please  one  critic,  the  others  immediately  complain  that 
it  is  wanting.  It  is  a fact  that  a very  eminent  publisher 
complained  to  me  a little  while  since  that  there  was  not 
enough  about  myself  in  a MS.  I sent  him,  and  too  much 
about  Julius  Cmsar  and  the  Gaulish  system  of  fortifica- 
tion. Now  it  so  happens  that  the  present  chapter  might 

* These  chapters  were  first  published  in  the  Portfolio.,  an  Artistic 
Periodical. 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery,  49 

be  dedicated  plausibly  enough  to  Julius  Caesar;  for  he 
crossed  the  Arroux  at  this  very  place  in  his  chase  after 
the  Swiss,  and  no  doubt  it  would  be  more  modest,  and 
more  scholarly,  to  give  a learned  little  dissertation  on 
that  event  than  an  account  of  my  own  shipwreck.  The 
only  objection  is,  that  most  readers  would  skip  the  spec- 
ulations about  Caesar. 

It  was  already  rather  late  in  the  evening,  and  I was 
sketching  by  the  river-side  at  Laboulaye,  and  smoking 
the  pipe  of  consolation.  The  high-road  passes  not  far 
from  the  river  at  that  place,  and  my  dog-friend,  hearing 
the  sound  of  wheels,  went  to  see  what  sort  of  a carriage 
was  passing  by.  Soon  after  the  carriage  stopped,  and 
I heard  the  sort  of  bark  which  a do^  ^ives  when  he 
meets  an  old  friend,  a bark  of  joyous  congratulation. 

It  was  a fat  doctor  of  my  acquaintance,  who  was  driv- 
inix  towards  Toulon-sur-Arroux  in  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing.  It  is  his  nature  to  be  sociable,  and  he  is  a hater  of 
solitude.  He  had  recognized  Tom  at  once,  which  is 
easy  on  account  of  the  dog’s  uncommon  size  and  beauty, 
and  so  knew  that  I could  not  be  far  off.  Then  he  ad- 
mired the  canoe.  — Would  I take  a passenger?  He 
would  be  delighted  to  go  with  me  to  Toulon  if  I would 
give  him  a berth.  — Could  he  swim?  — Swim!  not  in 
the  least,  but  he  would  risk  the  adventure  nevertheless. 
— Well,  but  then  he  would  most  likely  be  drowned. — 
He  did  not  care  if  he  were. 

Solitude  is  very  pleasant,  but  students  of  landscape 
get  rather  too  much  of  it  perhaps,  and  at  times  one  will 
incur  a risk  for  the  pleasure  of  a genial  companion. 
So  it  was  settled  that  the  doctor  should  send  his  servant 
on  to  Toulon  with  his  carriage,  and  that  we  should  see 
how  the  canoe  would  behave  with  both  of  us.  Amonc^st 

4 


The  Unknown  River. 


SO 

my  stores  I had  a waistcoat  containing  india-rubber  air 
bags,  to  be  worn  whilst  descending  particularly  danger- 
ous rapids;  so  I made  the  doctor  put  this  waistcoat  on, 
and  inflated  the  air-bags,  till  he  looked  like  a pouter 
pigeon.  All  being  read}^  we  got  into  our  places  very 
steadily,  sitting  face  to  face,  and  I took  the  paddle,  mak- 
ing my  passenger  promise  to  turn  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  to  the  left.  He  quietly  lit  a cigar,  and  sat  as 
coolly  as  if  he  had  been  on  a safe  ship  and  a deep  and 
tranquil  sea. 

The  river  here  was  a series  of  rapids  and  deep  pools, 
where  the  swirling  water  was  always  trying  to  get  you 
under  the  steep  walls  of  rock.  It  was  necessary  in 
several  places  to  cross  a rapid  to  avoid  being  caught 
between  great  boulders,  and  we  had  very  near  shaves 
for  it  once  or  twice.  The  coolness  of  the  doctor  all  this 
time  was  admirable  to  behold.  He  smoked  his  ci^ar 
quietly  and  sat  with  perfect  equilibrium,  so  that  I had  no 
trouble  with  him  of  any  kind  except  for  his  weight, 
which  was  considerable  indeed.  I praised  his  self-pos- 
session, and  he  answered  that  he  had  perfect  confidence 
in  my  skill.  I said  I could  not  promise  to  get  us  through 
such  a succession  of  dangers  without  an  accident.  ' In 
that  case,’  he  replied,  H am  satisfied  that  you  will  do 
what  can  be  done,  and  am  content  to  take  the  conse- 
quences.’ ' But  if  we  capsize  you  may  be  drowned 
in  spite  of  the  waistcoat  — the  current  is  tremendous.’ 
H’m  not  afraid  of  death,’  he  answered,  with  unfeigned 
courage. 

He  had  hardly  spoken  the  words,  when,  in  attempting 
to  cross  the  rapid  to  avoid  an  ugly  piece  of  polished 
granite,  about  the  shape  and  color  of  a whitened  skull, 
I found  it  could  not  be  done  without  uncommon  efibrt, 


-aoyvwy  “iy 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 


tStH;; 


Sf  THE 


A n Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery,  5 i 

and  broke  the  paddle  in  trying.  Of  course,  after  that, 
the  upset  was  inevitable.  The  doctor  did  not  stir,  but 
smoked  tranquilly  still,  not  uttering  a single  word  ; the 
canoe  was  carried  against  the  granite,  broadside  on. 
She  rose  upon  it  a foot  or  two,  then  slipped  to  the  right 
a little,  the  stern  dipped,  the  water  clasped  me  round 
the  waist  and  filled  the  well,  and  she  (slowly  as  it 
seemed)  capsized.  Just  as  she  went  over,  but  not  be- 
fore, I saw  the  doctor  throw  away  his  cigar.  Once  in 
the  water,  I found  myself  hurried  along  irresistibly,  but 
soon  got  my  head  clear,  and  hoped,  by  surface  swim- 
ming, to  escape  contusions  on  the  knees.  In  this  way  I 
got  down  the  rapid  quite  safely,  and  was  hurled  at  last 
into  a deep  pool,  where,  after  the  first  plunge,  I felt 
comparatively  at  ease.  Finding  it  impossible  to  land  on 
the  rocky  side,  I allowed  mj'self  to  float  into  an  eddy 
and  was  quietly  carried  out  of  the  central  current  into  a 
sort  of  tiny  haven  or  bay,  where  I landed. 

It  then  became  necessary  to  think  about  the  doctor. 
He  was  not  far  behind.  Like  myself,  he  had  been  car- 
ried down  the  rapid,  and  was  now  bobbing  about  in  the 
great  pool,  thanks  to  the  inflated  waistcoat.  But  he  had 
not  the  slightest  notion  about  directing  himself,  and  had 
got  into  a ccrcle  vicietix^  in  a whirlpool  that  turned  him 
round  and  round.  Seeing  that  he  would  probably  be 
carried  out  of  the  pool  into  some  other  rapid,  I thought 
it  time  to  set  about  saving  him,  and  called  out  that  lie 
was  not  to  grasp  me,  but  simply  lay  his  hands  on  my 
shoulders.  When  I approached  him  in  the  water  (rather 
cautiously  at  first)  he  behaved  with  the  same  coolness 
he  had  displayed  in  the  canoe.  He  laid  a hand  on  each 
shoulder  so  lightly  that  I hardly  felt  it,  and  I towed  him 
easily  into  port. 


52 


The  Unk^iown  River, 


He  began  by  expressing  polite  regrets,  but  these  were 
interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  canoe,  bottom  upwards, 
and  many  articles  that  had  been  in  her.  There  was  the 
box  of  etchings,  which  I swam  for  first,  and  many  an- 
other thing.  Luckily  I secured  the  canteen,  and  the 
doctor  prescribed  brandy  for  both  of  us.  After  that  we 
hauled  the  canoe  under  the  copse,  and  left  it. 

After  walking  about  half  an  hour  through  a den-e 
wood  and  over  very  rough  and  broken  ground,  we  came 
to  the  river  again,  where  it  spread  itself  into  a little  lake, 
and  at  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  there  was  a weir  and  a 
mill.  We  looked  miserable  creatures,  both  of  us.  We 
had  lost  our  hats,  and  the  miller’s  wife  took  us  for  beo-- 
gars.  But  the  doctor  entered  exactly  as  if  the  place 
belonged  to  him,  and  declared  that  we  must  have  a 
change  of  raiment.  Now,  considering  that  we  were 
constructed  by  nature  on  totally  opposite  principles, 
resembling  each  other  as  the  Tower  of  London  resem- 
bles the  Clock-tower  at  Westminster,  it  is  obvious  that 
the  miller’s  clothes  could  not  fit  both  of  us.  When  we 
were  dressed  in  this  disguise,  the  doctor  filled  the  miller’s 
suit  to  overflowing,  and  looked  like  an  over-packed  car- 
pet-bag, whereas  the  present  writer  had  the  appearance 
of  a village  school-boy  who  had  suddenly  outgrown  his 
habiliments.  At  first  the  miller’s  wife  viewed  us  with 
suspicion,  but  the  doctor  made  himself  so  agreeable  that 
the  cloud  disappeared  from  her  countenance,  and  the 
light  of  it  beamed  upon  us  kindly. 

By  this  time  it  was  dark,  and  our  hostess  took  clean, 
coarse  sheets  out  of  her  polished  presses,  and  laid  them 
on  two  of  the  four  beds  that  were  in  the  room.  But  the 
doctor  wrote  a few  words  on  a slip  of  paper,  and  sent  it 
to  Toulon  by  a little  boy,  and  in  a while  his  carriage 


m lisnABY 

OF  TBS 

Ufl!YSP.SlTY  OF  IIUHOIS 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery,  53 

came  up  to  the  mill  with  the  boy  in  it,  and  under  cover 
of  night  we  made  our  entry  into  the  town,  still  in  our 
borrowed  clothes.  The  worthy  innkeeper  was  just  go- 
ing to  bed  when  we  arrived,  but  the  active  little  manni- 
tons^  in  their  white  jackets  and  caps,  set  to  work  with 
alacrity  at  their  tiny  charcoal  fires  and  shining  copper- 
pans.  And  we  sat  down,  in  our  queer  costume,  to  the 
best  of  suppers,  with  wonderful  appetites  and  joyous 
laughter.  And  so  pleasantly  ended  our  shipwreck ; but 
it  might  have  ended  not  so  pleasantly  as  that.  One 
thing  is  certain,  without  the  inflatable  waistcoat  the  doc- 
tor’s patients  would  have  benefited  by  his  advice  no 
more. 

As  this  chapter  has  been  written  from  the  beginning 
in  open  defiance  of  criticism,  I may  as  well  sin  to  the 
very  end,  and  speak  of  the  faithful  hound  that  followed 
me.  He  needed  no  inflatable  waistcoat,  but  came  danc- 
ing down  the  rapids  like  a cork,  and  never  left  us.  He 
is  the  most  indefatigable  of  swimmers ; mile  after  mile 
did  he  follow  the  canoe,  like  some  tame,  affectionate 
seal.  And  is  he  not  to  be  mentioned,  — he,  the  un- 
wearied follower,  the  brave  defender,  the  faithful  com- 
panion and  friend?  No  one  dare  approach  the  canoe 
when  he  is  there  ; and  shall  he  not  sup  with  us  after  our 
shipwreck,  and  be  honorably  mentioned  here? 


Ce  qu'il y a de  mcilleur  dans  Vkomme.)  c'est  le  chien» 


54 


The  Unknown  River, 


CHAPTER  X. 

This  liUle  etching  gives  a tolerably  good  notion  of 
the  present  condition  of  those  fortifications  which, 
in  the  middle  ages,  were  the  citadel  of  Toulon-sur-Ar- 
roux.  The  etching  was  made  some  time  since ; had  it 
been  executed  during  the  last  few  weeks,  I should  have 
run  considerable  risk  of  being  ill-used  as  a Prussian  spy. 
For  it  is  not  safe,  in  this  month  of  September,  1870,  to 
draw  so  much  as  the  wicket-gate  of  a cottage  garden  any- 
where in  France,  whether  you  are  a Frenchman  or  a 
foreigner ; and  if  the  latter,  your  chances  are  so  much 
the  worse.  It  had  formed  part  of  my  plan  to  republish 
this  series  of  papers  with  additional  etchings  on  a larger 
scale,  and  I began  these  additional  plates  in  the  month 
of  July,  intending  to  revisit  the  scenery  of  the  whole 
river,  and  select  about  a dozen  of  the  finest  subjects.  I 
had  done  a few  of  these  when  the  great  spy  mania  took 
possession  of  all  French  minds,  at  least  in  the  lower 
classes,  and  there  arose  such  a hubbub  about  my  doings 
over  an  extent  of  country  thirty  miles  in  diameter,  that  it 
would  have  been  absolute  madness  to  let  myself  be  seen 
with  any  thing  of  the  nature  of  drawing  materials  about 
me.  So  the  larger  etchings  were  brought  to  an  abrupt 
termination.  The  reader,  who  is  by  this  time  familiar 
with  the  slight  and  purely  artistic  little  plates  which  have 
illustrated  these  chapters,  will  be  amused  at  the  notion 


T C 


m liBRARY 
OF  THE 
KSITV  Cf 


THE  UBBARY 
.OF  THE 

UKl’^EBSiTY  OF  Il’JtiClS 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery, 


ss 


that  they  can  be  supposed  to  be  of  any  imaginable  utility 
to  Von  Moltke  and  the  Crown  Prince  in  their  brilliant 
invasion  of  France  ; but  the  peasantry  in  these  parts  have 
made  up  their  ingenious  minds  on  the  subject,  and  as  to 
arguing  with  them,  one  might  as  well  try  to  argue  with 
a tribe  of  liostile  savages.  Like  the  country  people  in 
England,  they  confound  drawing  with  surveying,  and 
believe  that  artists  are  men  employed  to  make  maps. 
Who  employs  them?  that  is  the  next  question;  and  the 
answer,  of  course,  is,  'The  King  of  Prussia.’*  When  I 
made  these  little  plates  at  Toulon,  I was  enjoying  one  of 
the  blessings  and  privileges  of  peace.  He  would  be  a 
bold  man  to-day,  who  would  sit  down  and  draw  a citadel 
anywhere  in  France,  even  though  it  had  been  dismantled 
for  the  last  three  hundred  years. 

Here,  again,  is  the  bridge.  If  any  one  drew  that 
bridge  to-day,  it  would  clearly  be  that  the  Prussians 
might  pass  over  it.  But  in  those  happy  times  of  peace, 
the  peasants  felt  rather  flattered  that  a ' map  ’ should  be 
made  of  their  bridge,  and  the  more  knowing  ones  sug- 
gested that,  since  the  present  writer  made  such  good  maps 
of  bridges,  he  would  do  well  to  make  one  of  the  new  rail- 

r 

way-bridge  at  Etang,  which  was  of  iron,  and  perfectly 
straight,  and  had  been  pushed  from  shore  to  shore  all  in 
a single  piece,  just  as  you  would  put  a plank  over  a 
rivulet. 

Toulon  is  a very  quaint  little  town,  with  a rather  pic- 
turesque market-place  on  a hill-top,  and  the  streets  slop- 

* In  the  good  old  times,  before  Bismarck  was  heard  of,  tyavailler pour 
le  roi  de  Prusse  used  to  mean  working  without  any  probability  of  pay- 
ment. In  that  sense,  undoubtedly^  the  present  writer,  like  most  artists, 
has  worked  a good  deal  for  the  King  of  Prussia.  But  tell  it  not  in 
Gath,  repeat  it  not  in  the  villages  of  Burgundy!  a pleasantry  of  that 
kind,  in  these  times,  might  cost  the  jester’s  life. 


The  Unknown  River. 


in^r  down  on  all  sides  to  the  river  and  the  surrounding: 
country.  On  the  top  of  the  hill  is  the  old  citadel,  of 
which  one  tower  serves  for  the  tower  of  the  old  church. 
The  population  of  Toulon  has  diminished  of  late  years, 
but  the  church,  which  used  to  be  considered  quite  large 
enough  for  the  place  (a  quaint  old  Norman-looking 
edifice),  has  not  satisfied  the  ambition  of  the  present 
incumbent,  who  saw  big  churches  rising  in  all  the  neigh- 
boring villages,  and  thought  he  might  as  well  have  a big 
church  too.  So  he  raised  a subscription  and  built  one, 
but  a certain  pillar  of  it  was  unfortunately  erected  im- 
mediately over  an  old  well,  and  the  covering  of  the  well 
gave  way,  and  the  pillar  went  down  into  it,  as  a steel 
ramrod  used  to  go  down  the  barrel  of  a rifle  before  these 
breech-loading’  times. 

In  lonely  travel  the  great  secret  of  avoiding  ennui  is 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  people  as  well  as  the  scenery. 
Any  one  who  is  on  the  look-out  for  characters  is  alwax  s 
sure  to  meet  with  them.  For  instance,  I found  a doctor 
at  Toulon  who  smoked  without  ceasing  when  he  was 
awake,  except  when  he  laid  down  his  pipe  to  take  his 
knife  and  fork.  He  was  an  old  man,  in  perfect  health, 
and  still  in  full  professional  practice.  This  last  fact  may 
seem  incompatible  with  incessant  smoking,  and  would, 
no  doubt,  be  so  in  London  ; but  in  a tiny  town  where 
everybody  knew  the  doctor,  he  was  indulged  in  his  habit 
by  everybody.  I spent  a good  many  hours  with  him, 
and  during  the  whole  time  he  was  doing  one  of  two 
things,  either  smoking  his  pipe  or  filling  it.  He  had 
read  most  of  our  best  authors  in  the  original,  having 
taught  himself  English  alone,  with  the  help  of  nothing 
but  books.  He  had  a capital  little  English  library  at 
home,  and  had  read  every  volume  in  it : all  Scott,  all 


An  Etc  her'’' s Voyage  of  Discovery,  57 

Dickens,  all  Shakespeare,  Byron,  and  many  others. 
His  pronunciation  was,  of  course,  as  bad  as  our  pronun- 
ciation of  Latin ; and  I felt  on  hearing  him  read  a little, 
as  an  old  Roman  would  feel  if  he  could  go  to  Oxford 
and  hear  the  men  there  deliver  Latin  orations.  How- 
ever, in  this  instance,  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at, 
because  there  was  no  pretension,  and  the  doctor  knew 
our  literature  better  than  many  Englishmen  do,  and 
understood  it,  and  loved  it.  He  had  never  heard  an 
English  word  pronounced  by  a native  before  he  hit  upon 
me,  so  that  I was  a real  trouvaille ; and  he  was  extremely 
kind  to  me,  and  invited  me  to  breakfast,  pointing  out  a 
charming  harbor  for  the  canoe  at  the  end  of  his  garden, 
as  a temptation  to  future  voyages. 

But  the  best  character  in  Toulon  was  the  7naire  of  the 
place.  Monsieur  B.,  an  artist  of  reputation  in  a much 
more  useful  line  than  any  etcher.  I fear  that  no  plate 
of  mine  will  ever  give  Monsieur  B.  half  as  much  pleas- 
ure and  satisfaction  as  the  -plats  of  his  cooking  gave  to 
me.  He  keeps  the  hotel  where  I stayed,  and  he  made 
me  a little  portable  dejc-aner  to  take  with  me  every  morn- 
ing when  I set  out  to  work.  French  cookery  is  always 
either  exquisite  or  abominable,  and  his  was  of  the  former. 
Monsieur  B.  is  a very  celebrated  man  indeed.  People 
write  from  a distance  to  order  a dinner,  and  then  travel 
to  Toulon  to  eat  it.  Unfortunately,  he  is  also  celebrated 
as  the  most  irascible  man  in  the  country  ; which,  consid- 
ering the  generally  explosive  character  of  French  tem- 
pers, is  saying  a good  deal.  As  that  man  must  be  a 
wonderfully  perfect  Sabbatarian  who  can  win  fame  in 
Scotland  for  his  observance  of  the  day  of  rest,  so  that 
Frenchman  must  be  irascible  indeed  who  can  make  him- 
self famous  for  his  irritability.  His  powers  of  voluble 


58 


The  Unknown  River, 


invective  surpassed  all  that  I had  ever  heard  in  the  way 
of  scolding,  and  their  effect  was  immensely  enhanced  by 
the  most  scientific  modulation  of  tone.  His  loud  voice 
disturbed  me  in  the  early  morning  as  he  scolded  a 
boy-cook  for  having  used  a pound  of  first-rate  butter, 
reserved  especially  for  pastr}^,  in  cooking  yesterday’s 
dinner.  Now  the  misapplication  of  the  butter  was 
commented  upon  in  a restrained  and  subdued  ^iano^ 
with  deep  concentrated  rage,  and  now  it  passed  with  a 
rapid  crescendo  to  foi'te  and  a terrible  fortissimo^  that 
made  the  very  windows  rattle.  When  a servant  is  to 
be  reprimanded,  the  first  observations  are  made  in  the 
utmost  moderation,  and  if  only  Monsieur  B.  could  stop 
there,  he  would  deserve  the  credit  of  being  a reasonable 
though  vigilant  master ; but  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
exasperates  him,  and  even  when  the  culprit  offers  no 
reply,  his  fault  is  described  to  him  over  and  over  again, 
every  time  with  increasing  vehemence,  till  at  length  the 
floodgates  of  invective  are  opened  wide  and  the  torrent 
rolls  and  roars. 

Yet  nothing  can  exceed  Monsieur  B.’s  politeness  to  his 
guests.  In  the  midst  of  his  loudest  furies,  he  will  turn 
aside  and  speak  to  you  with  a serene  countenance  and 
gentle  voice,  whilst  over  the  door  of  the  dining-room  is 
the  inscription  : — 


^ Rien  ne  doit  deranger  V honuHe  homme  qui  dinei 


* ^ 


Tilt  IIBBM 
OF  THE 


r|  I 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 


59 


CHAPTER  XL 


HE  admirers  of  beautiful  scenery  are  often  some- 


JL  what  narrow,  and  even  bigoted,  in  their  admira- 
tion. It  has  been  the  fashion,  for  the  last  half-century, 
to  enjoy  mountain  scenery  very  much,  and  to  undertake 
long  journeys  in  search  of  it;  but  the  proof  that  this  love 
of  nature  is  rather  the  love  of  a certain  kind  of  exhilara- 
tion, to  be  had  best  in  mountainous  districts,  is  that  most 
people  still  remain  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  beauty  of 
the  plains.  They  can  understand  that  you  have  reason- 
able motives  for  going  to  Switzerland  or  the  Tyrol,  but 
what  can  you  see  to  care  for  on  the  Loire?  ' Mere  pop- 
lars, you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing,’  say  the  few  who 
have  visited  the  river  that  Turner  loved.  Therefore  I 
feel  a little  apprehensive  that  the  sympathy  of  many 
readers,  which  has  gone  with  me  whilst  I had  to  speak 
of  rocks  and  rapids,  and  heathery  hills  purple  in  the 
evening,  may  leave  me  now  that  I come  to  the  broader 
waters  and  less  romantic  landscapes  of  the  plain. 

And  yet,  when  the  last  rapid  had  been  passed,  and 
the  river  spread  into  sleepy  reaches,  only  occasionally 
interrupted  by  the  gentle  murmur  of  a safe  and  sandy 
shallow,  over  which  the  canoe  glided  like  a boat  on 
some  languid  stream  ; when  the  sun  at  evening,  instead 
of  suddenly  and  prematurely  disappearing  behind  the 
wooded  heights,  sank  slowly  in  the  immensity  of  the 


6o 


The  Unknowfi  River. 


clear  heaven,  till  he  set  on  the  far  horizon  as  he  sets  on 
the  summer  sea,  there  came  upon  the  spirit  of  the  voy- 
ager such  a sense  of  boundless  space,  and  free  breathing 
of  balmy  illimitable  air,  as  he  never  knew  in  the  narrow 
gorges  where  dark  hills  and  dense  woods  overshadowed 
him. 

Every  scene  of  nature  has  its  own  character,  and  its 
own  charm.  The  plains  have  not  the  sublimities  of  the 
hills,  nor  the  guarded  seclusion  of  the  shaded  valleys, 
and  we  miss  the  weird  shapes  of  the  gray  rocks  that 
breast  the  stream  where  its  flowing  is  strongest ; yet  it  is 
glorious  to  see  all  the  blue  sky  in  the  daytime,  and  all 
the  stars  at  night.  And  the  river  seems  to  gain  a certain 
dignity  too,  with  its  assurance  of  perfect  peace.  It  has 
space  for  all  its  waters,  and  knows  restraint  no  more. 
The  graceful  trees  only  adorn  its  borders,  but  do  not 
arrest  its  course.  If  it  winds  in  beautiful  curves,  it  does 
so  from  deliberate  preferences.  It  would  be  easy,  as  it 
seems,  to  go  straight  to  its  distant  bourn,  but  to  go  indi- 
rectly is  yet  a little  easier ; so  it  turns  for  its  own  pleas- 
ure, and  visits  here  a village,  and  there  a solitary  farm, 
where  the  oxen  stand  knee-deep  in  the  evening. 

The  gradual  growth  of  a river  might  be  illustrated  by 
drawings  of  its  bridges.  First  you  have  the  trunk  of  a 
single  tree,  rudely  flattened  on  the  upper  side  by  strokes 
of  a peasant’s  axe,  and  supported  by  two  rude  abutments 
of  unhewn  granite  blocks.  A little  lower  down  the 
stream  has  become  too  wide  for  the  single  trunk  to 
cross  it ; so  now  you  have  two  trees  that  meet  on  a rock 
in  the  middle.  After  that  you  come  to  the  first  serious 
attempt  at  construction  : a wooden  bridge  for  foot-pas- 
sengers only,  the  cattle  and  cart  traffic  still  passing 
through  the  water  in  a shallow  ford  a little  below ; then 


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A 71  EtcheT^s  Voyage  of  Discovery.  6i 

comes  the  first  stone  bridge,  a single  arch,  if  the  people 
are  rich  enough  to  afford  a piece  of  accomplished  engi- 
neering, but,  if  the  village  masons  have  done  the  work, 
more  usually  two  or  three  tiny  arches,  that  a stray  cow 
might  possibly  pass  under,  and  which  are  pretty  sure  to 
be  choked  with  water  in  a flood  which  will  wash  over 
the  rude  parapet.  As  the  river  widens  it  passes  near 
some  town  or  city,  and  then  we  find  the  stately  stone 
bridge  of  careful  masonry  — three  arches,  perhaps  — 
where  the  high-road  enters  the  town.  After  that  the 
number  of  arches  increases,  till  at  last  you  meet  with 
those  long  and  stately  constructions,  whose  fine  perspec- 
tive attracted  Turner  so  much  when  he  illustrated  the 
rivers  of  France. 

The  accompanying  sketch,  which  represents  the  bridge 
of  Gueugnon,  gives  evidence  that  the  Unknown  River 
has  quite  grown  out  of  the  romantic  and  tumultuous 
period  of  its  existence,  and  become  a sober  stream  capa- 
ble even  of  rendering  service  to  navigation,  if  it  were 
worth  while  to  deepen  a few  shallows  here  and  there. 
Indeed,  from  this  bridge  to  the  Loire  the  river  is  classed 
amongst  those  which,  if  not  positively  navigable,  might 
easily  be  made  so. 

Gueugnon  is  rather  an  industrial  place,  as  may  be 
guessed  from  the  smoky  chimneys  in  the  etching,  which 
belong  to  some  ironworks,  where  they  make  wire,  and 
sheet-iron  for  tinning.  Here  the  traveller  found  an  iron 
canoe,  flat-bottomed,  and  extremely  even  uncomfortably 
narrow.  She  must  have  been  terribly  crank;  but  that 
is  a defect  the  body  accustoms  itself  to  so  easily  that, 
after  a fortnight’s  practice,  one  sits  in  a crank  boat  as 
easily  as  in  a stiff  one.  There  is  usually  a certain 
amount  of  jealousy  amongst  boat-builders,  and  the  me- 


62 


The  Unknown  River, 


chanic  who  had  made  the  iron  canoe  spoke  very  dispar- 
agingly of  mine,  which  I took  with  British  coolness, 
merely  inquiring  whether  he  had  ever  descended  the 
rapids  in  his  invention,  which  was  entirely  without  a 
deck,  and  would  have  certainly  gone  to  the  bottom  like 
a lump  of  lead  after  half  a dozen  waves  had  washed  into 
it.  The  crowd  around  us  seemed  to  consider  that  the 
best  proof  of  the  quality  of  my  own  vessel  was  her  suc- 
cessful voyage  down  the  wildest  parts  of  the  river. 
After  that,  the  inimical  mechanic  became  suddenly  very 
amiable,  and  conducted  me  over  the  ironworks,  explain- 
ing every  process  most  politel}^  The  reason  for  this 
amiability  became  evident  at  last;  for  just  as  I left  him, 
and  thanked  him,  he  proposed  to  build  me  an  iron  canoe 
which  should  be  made. exactly  according  to  my  own 
fancy,  and  have  a deck,. and  every  thing  I had  a mind 
to.  In  a word  he  was  a shipbuilder  (on  a very  small 
scale)  touting  for  orders.  Had  the  present  writer  been 
a permanent  resident  at  Gueugnon,  it  would  have  been 
rather  a tempting  proposal,  as  there  is  no  emplo3^ment 
in  the  world  more  congenial  to  his  feelings  than  super- 
intending the  construction  of  a boat. 

There  is  a great  weir  at  Gueugnon,  which  offers  a 
slope  of  most  excellent  masonry  very  like  a great  rail- 
way embankment,  and  when  the  water  flows  over  it,  in 
one  smooth  sheet,  it  would  be  delightful  to  glide  down 
it  in  a canoe.  Unfortunately,  however,  there  are  rude 
stones  at  the  bottom,  which  would  give  the  adventurer 
a most  unpleasant  reception.  I got  amongst  these  stones 
in  the  dark,  and  had  plenty  of  trouble  with  them — the 
last  inconvenience  of  that  kind  in  the  course  of  the 
voyage. 

There  was  a comfortable  inn  at  Gueugnon  — well, 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Diseovery,  63 


comfortable  is  perhaps  hardly  the  word  for  any  French 
inn  of  that  class,  but  these  things  go  by  comparison,  and, 
after  lodging  in  peasants’  cottages  amongst  the  hills,  it 
seemed  quite  stately  and  luxurious  to  sit  at  dinner  in  the 
evening  with  two  candles  in  tall  candle-sticks  on  the 
table,  and  an  attentive  waiter  at  one’s  elbow. 

The  etching  opposite  shows  the  way  in  which  I used 
to  have  to  seek  for  a lodging  when  belated,  and  it  was 
always  disagreeable  to  me,  mainly  on  account  of  the 
necessary,  yet  almost  impossible  explanations.  How 
can  you  make  a peasant  understand  your  purposes  in 
an  artistic  excursion  of  any  kind?  How,  especially, 
can  you  make  him  understand  such  purposes  when  com- 
plicated with  the  amusement  of  canoing? 

On  a fine  night  it  was  positively  more  agreeable  to 
sleep  in  the  canoe,  in  the  manner  represented  at  the 
close  of  the  chapter.  Since  then  the  author  has  invented 
much  more  luxurious  arrangements ; * but  it  was  not 
unpleasant  to  make  a bed  of  rushes,  and  sleep  soundly 
and  softly,  covered  up  to  the  chin  with  waterproofs  to 
guard  one  from  the  dews  of  the  night.  Many  a poor 

* This  alludes  to  a contrivance  bj  which  a hut  and  a punt  are  united 
in  one  construction.  During  the  day,  the  punt,  which  is  of  wood, 
contains  a second  punt  of  tinned  iron.  The  iron  punt  is  divided  into 
several  compartments,  in  the  largest  of  which  sits  the  canoist.  All 
the  other  compartments  are  closed.  Two  of  them  are  kept  accessible 
by  movable  lids;  one  of  these  is  used  for  provisions  and  the  other  for 
clothing.  That  for  provisions  contains  eight  boxes  fitted  to  each  other 
carefully,  in  which  may  be  kept  the  different  requisites  for  a week’s 
voyage,  and  a complete  cooking  apparatus.  That  for  clothing  con- 
tains a change  of  dry  clothes,  a hammock,  &c.,  and  bedding.  When 
night  comes  the  boat  is  drawn  up  on  the  shore,  and  the  tin  punt  re- 
moved from  the  interior  of  the  wooden  one.  Two  light  frames  are 
then  fixed  upright  in  the  wooden  punt,  and  the  tin  one  is  easily  lifted 
upon  these  frames.  A double  curtain  is  then  fixed  all  round,  and  we 
have  a hut  with  a wooden  floor,  a metallic  roof,  and  canvas  sides.  In 
this  hut  the  hammock  is  easily  suspended. 


64 


The  Unknown  River, 


soldier  in  the  present  war,  forced  to  lie  on  the  bare 
ground,  often  stony  and  muddy,  would  consider  these 
contriv^ances  a luxury.  It  was  something,  too,  before 
going  to  sleep,  to  look  up  at  the  moonlit  clouds  and  the 
stars  in  the  depths  between  them. 

This  contrivance  has  been  completely  realized  in  every  detail,  but  I 
have  never  had  an  opportunity  of  using  it,  because,  during  the  sum- 
mer of  1870  there  was  no  water  in  the  rivers,  and  since  the  beginning 
of  the  Prussian  War  it  would  be  madness  to  show  one’s  self  in  any  such 
mysterious-looking  invention,  as  it  would  set  all  the  peasants  per- 
fectly mad.  In  times  of  sanity  and  peace  it  seems  to  me  that  nothing 
could  be  better  adapted  for  a tour  such  as  that  described  in  these 
pages.  It  is  unpleasant  to  have  to  leave  work  undone  in  order  to  go 
five  or  six  miles  lower  down  a river  to  seek  for  a lodging.  Many  etch- 
ings were  left  unfinished  for  that  reason  in  the  excursion  here  narrated, 
and  have  consequently  been  thrown  aside.  Many  subjects  remarkably 
suited  for  etching  had  also  to  be  passed  without  illustration  when  the 
weather  was  not  mild  enough  for  a bivouac. 


TKt  LfBMRY 
Of  THE 


OS’l/ESsSiiV  OF  iLLIfiOiS 


An  Etcher  s Voyage  of  Discovery, 


65 


CHAPTER  XII. 


N leaving  Gueugnon,  in  the  cool  of  a bright  autumn 


evening  I saw  a magnificent  piece  of  black  oak 
which  had  been  disengaged  from  the  bed  of  the  river 
during  the  great  inundation,  and  thrown  upon  the  high 
shore.  The  whole  trunk  was  complete,  and  measured 
seventy  feet  in  length  by  forty  in  girth.  I cut  it  in  sev- 
eral places  with  a penknife  and  found  it  as  black  as 
ebony.  How  many  centuries  it  had  lain  in  the  river’s 
bed  I know  not,  but,  judging  from  the  color  and  condi- 
tion of  the  wood,  which-  was  all  black  bog-oak  of  the 
finest  quality,  the  tree  must  have  lain  beneath  the  flowing 
water  as  long  as  the  black  oak  in  the  deepest  bogs  of 
Ireland.  What  noble  chambers  might  have  been  fur- 
nished out  of  it ! what  rich  inlaying  of  parquets  and 
wainscot  would  it  not  have  supplied ! 

The  landscape  now  began  to  wear  an  aspect  of  un- 
common sadness  and  desolation.  The  river  divided 
itself  into  many  straggling  currents  in  a wide  desert  of 
sand  and  pebbles.  A low,  yellow  precipice  of  the  same 
material  hid  all  the  fields  from  my  sight,  as  I sat  low  in 
the  canoe  on  the  level  of  the  dreary  gray  water.  How 
mournfully,  too,  the  water  seemed  to  murmur  down  its 
tortuous,  divided  channels  ! For  miles  and  miles  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  except  a great  chateau  on  the  top 


5 


66 


The  Unknown  River, 


of  a bare  slope,  a long,  ugly,  melancholy  building, 
enough  to  make  one  miserable  to  look  at  it,  and  think 
that  any  one  could  be  condemned  to  live  in  it. 

When  I came  near  this  chateau,  the  twilight  was 
already  very  far  advanced,  and  I landed  to  eat  a little 
supper.  The  land  was  bare  of  trees,  a desolate  expanse 
of  uncultivated  soil,  where  a herd  grazed  in  the  distance. 
Suddenly  I wondered  not  to  see  Tom  galloping  towards 
me,  as  he  generally  had  done  at  these  improvised  meal- 
times on  the  shore.  I called  and  whistled  for  him  long 
and  loudly,  but  in  vain,  and  during  all  that  remained  of 
the  voyage  I saw  his  affectionate  face  no  more.  This 
caused  me  some  anxiety,  and  rather  spoiled  my  pleasure, 
but  I trusted  that  he  would  find  his  way  home  again. 
On  my  return  I made  inquiries,  and  found  that  he  had 
first  returned  to  the  inn  at  Gueuornon,  after  losine:  me  in 
the  tortuous  channels  of  the  river,  and  stayed  at  the  inn 
till  dejcitncr  the  next  morning.  After  his  meal  he  sud- 
denly disappeared,  and  the  innkeeper  could  give  no 
further  account  of  him.  The  same  evening,  however, 
he  arrived  at  my  house,  a distance  of  fifty  kilometres, 
where  he  rushed  to  his  kennel  at  once,  and  fell  down  in 
it  like  lead,  exhausted.  The  next  day  he  was  all  right 
again.  But  it  was  a severe  run,  for  no  doubt  he  had 
made  the  fifty  kilometres  a hundred,  and  followed  the 
river’s  brink  in  the  thick  underwood;  often,  I dare  say, 
swimming  against  the  stream.  I never  knew  such  a 
persistent  swimmer.  He  never  had  the  sense  to  follow 
the  canoe  on  the  bank,  but  would  always  swim  behind 
it,  however  cold  the  water  or  long  the  distance.  It  was 
this  which  had  separated  him  from  me.  Being  rather 
pressed  for  time  in  the  late  evening,  I had  pushed  on  too 
fast  for  Tom. 


An  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Discovery.  67 


The  voyage  had  been  a lonely  one  from  the  beginning, 
but  it  seemed  doubly  solitary  after  the  loss  of  my  com- 
panion. I had  never  been  able  to  do  with  him  in  the 
canoe,  — he  was  much  too  large  and  heavy  for  that,  — 
but  every  time  I landed,  either  to  make  an  etching  or 
eat  a dinner  — and  I never  did  either  afloat  — Tom  had 
always  joined  me,  and  so  the  long  solitude  had  been 
made  less  difficult  to  endure.  I humbly  thank  Divine 
Providence  for  having  invented  dogs,  and  I regard  that 
man  with  wondering  pity  who  can  lead  a dogless  life. 

The  dreary  hours  and  the  dreary  landscape  both  came 
to  an  end  at  the  same  time.  The  moon  rose,  trees  began 
to  reappear  on  the  river’s  brink,  the  scattered  currents 
met  together  again,  and  there  were  vistas  of  prolonged 
perspective.  I remember  one  especially,  a scene  of 
most  perfect  and  extraordinary  beauty.  For  a length  of 
about  a thousand  fathoms  the  stream  was  strai^-ht  as  a 
cathedral  aisle,  and  at  about  half  the  distance  there  was 
a transept  on  each  side,  that  might  have  been  designed 
by  art.  All  along,  the  shores  were  shaded  by  the  richest 
foliage.  Boughs  hung  gracefully  till  they  dipped  their 
golden  leaves  in  the  glassy  water.  Tall  poplars  rose  at 
intervals,  like  towers,  to  mark  the  far  perspective.  It 
was  midnight.  A pure  semi-transparent  mist  filled  the 
still  and  silent  air,  and  above  in  the  clear  heaven  shone 
the  round  and  brilliant  moon.  Not  a sound  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  alternate  dip  of  the  paddle,  which  I used 
as  gently  as  might  be,  for  it  seemed  wrong  to  break  so 
beautiful  a mirror.  At  last  I toiled  no  more,  and  the 
little  boat  glided  on  and  on  with  its  own  motion,  as  if 
drawn  by  invisible  spirits.  During  the  whole  voyage  I 
had  found  nothing  so  exquisite  as  this,  nor  has  any  other 
impression  fixed  itself  so  perfectly  in  my  memory. 


68 


The  Unknown  River, 


That  scene  was  too  ethereal  to  be  etched,  but  next  day 
I drew  this  bridge,  partly  because  it  was  the  last  bridge 
on  the  Unknown  River,  and  partly  as  a memorial  of  the 
great  and  disastrous  flood.  In  these  terrible  months  of 
1870,  when  a thousand  bridges  that  spanned  the  fair 
rivers  of  France,  have  been  ruined  to  check  the  progress 
of  an  invader  more  to  be  dreaded  than  any  inundation, 
men  pray  that  the  rains  may  fall  and  the  waters  rise  till 
the  streams  are  all  torrents  and  the  plains  all  inland 
seas. 

After  this  bridge,  the  scenery  of  the  shore  t^an  to 
assume  the  large  aspect  that  belongs  to  the  stately  Loire. 
A steep  bank  rose  in  the  distance,  clothed  with  vines  and 
crowned  with  a group  of  buildings  clustering  round 
convent-towers.  The  current  became  swifter,  as  if  the 
Unknown  River  were  hastening  to  its  end ; it  curved 
rapidly  once  or  twice,  then  suddenly  behold  an  expanse 
of  broad  water  before  me,  flowing  westwards,  and  before 
I had  time  quite  perfectly  to  realize  the  change,  the 
canoe  was  carried  out  upon  the  Loire. 

And  so  the  voyage  came  to  a successful  end,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  first  his  waters  flowed,  the  Unknown 
River  has  been  navigated.  Shall  I conclude  with  a 
triumphant  boast,  and  affirm  that  although  Gaul  and 
Roman  have  dwelt  upon  its  shores,  and  reddened  it  in 
sanguinary  conflict,  its  perfect  exploration  was  reserved 
for  the  audacity  of  an  Englishman?  Let  me  rather, 
more  modestly,  rejoice  in  sharing  that  capacity  for  tak- 
ing pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  natural  scenery  which 
belongs  to  so  many  in  our  own  time.  It  is  this,  much 
more  than  any  particular  satisfaction  in  the  somewhat 
monotonous  business  of  paddling,  which  constitutes  the 
principal  charm  of  all  canoe  voyages,  and  it  is  this. 


TWE  LiBnAnY 


Of  iil£ 

OKiVEflSiTY  OF  ILUfiOIS 


Of  tse 


THE  lIBfiARY 
OF  THE 

UKiVERSlTY  OF  ILLINOIS 


An  Etcher's  Voyage  of  Discovery.  69 


more  peculiarly  and  especially,  which  made  privations 
light  to  me,  and  labor -pleasant,  and  time  swift,  during 
the  weeks  I spent  in,  'An  Etcher’s  Voyage  of  Dis 
covery.* 


70 


The  Unknown  River. 


RESULTS. 


FEW  words  concerning  the  especial  purpose  of 


Jl\.  this  voyage  — etching  from  nature  — may  pos- 
sibly be  of  use  to  a few  readers  who  may  undertake 
etchinfj  tours. 

No  art  is  more  agreeable  for  direct  work  from  nature 
than  etching  is.  The  rapidity  of  it,  and  its  freedom,  are 
greatly  in  its  favor,  and  so  is  its  remarkable  indepen- 
dence of  damp  and  wet.  Many  of  the  plates  in  this 
series  were  immersed  in  the  river,  after  being  etched, 
when  the  artist  was  upset ; others  were  executed  in  bad 
weather,  with  the  rain  literally  pouring  over  the  copper 
in  a manner  which  would  have  rendered  any  other  kind 
of  drawing  quite  impossible.  In  the  course  of  the  ex- 
cursion I did  sixty  plates,  from  which  these  are  selected. 
It  is  better,  I think,  to  be  rather  prolific  in  production, 
and  select  afterwards  the  plates  which  seem  most  suc- 
cessful, than  to  spend  much  time  in  correcting  bad  plates 
in  the  studio.  My  advice  to  etchers  would  be  to  spend 
time  rather  in  doing  many  plates  than  in  polishing  and 
mending  a few.  This  may  be  contrary  to  the  feeling  of 
some  painters,  who  rightly,  in  their  art,  obey  the  maxims 
of  Boileau  ; but  whatever  value  an  etching  may  have 
depends  mainly  on  the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  If  it 
were  only  possible  to  possess  that  inspiration  always,  the 
art  would  be  easier  than  it  is.  The  only  consolation  I 
have  to  suggest  for  the  many  failures  and  the  disappoint- 
ing uncertainty  which  ever  attend  it,  is  that  it  leads  us  to 
work  from  nature,  and  look  at  nature,  in  the  most  essen- 
tially artistic  spirit. 


THE  END. 


